


Instinct is a Marvellous Thing

by drarrymehome



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus Draco Malfoy, Bi!Harry, Bisexual Harry Potter, Dimension Travel, Drarry, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Female Draco Malfoy, Happy Ending, M/M, Oblivious Harry, Pining, Post-War, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, background Pansmione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 65,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22115278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drarrymehome/pseuds/drarrymehome
Summary: A few months after defeating Voldemort, a grief-stricken Harry goes in search of the family he has always wanted. The search takes him to a place where everything is the same but a little bit different. Harry quite likes it there, although maybe everything isn't as it seems.But what happened to the people Harry left behind? The disappearance of Harry Potter rocked the wizarding world like nothing else, and when Draco Malfoy is accused of his kidnapping, why won’t he tell everyone the truth about what happened? Would they even believe him if he did?More importantly, where is Harry Potter and is he coming back?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 94
Kudos: 85





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> *This fic does feature a female version of Draco, but this is a temporary thing. It’ll all make sense later, trust me.*
> 
> Hello everyone, I’m back! 
> 
> I’ve been really struggling with my writing over the last few months so I’m posting this now hoping it will motivate me to write more. I’m telling you this because the chapters might be very irregular.
> 
> As always, you can come and say hello any time on tumblr [@drarrymehome](https://drarrymehome.tumblr.com)

**Prologue – One Year Ago**

Saturday 5th September 1998

“Potter, you’ve lost your mind! You can’t break into the Department of Mysteries! You’re the most recognisable face in the country, if not the world. More to the point, it’s _illegal_! You’re not above the law just because you’re the sodding _Chosen One._ ” Malfoy’s fists were clenched so hard by his sides that his knuckles were turning white. He was flushed red with anger and utter disbelief, his hair beginning to fall across his forehead and into his eyes as his usual composure failed him.

“I’ve done it before,” Harry shrugged nonchalantly, “I don’t see why I can’t do it again.” He was beginning to regret having this conversation in the Leaky. It had seemed wise to pick a public place to meet Malfoy; firstly because Harry wasn’t quite sure he trusted him yet, and also because it might improve Malfoy’s reputation to be seen with the ‘right’ sort for once. People had stared at them since the minute they stepped in the door – despite Harry’s reassuring glance at Tom – but Harry hadn’t anticipated telling Malfoy about his plan, or Malfoy’s subsequent anger. Their surrounding company looked ready to spring to Harry’s defence which he found both touching and amusing, since he was supposedly more powerful than all of them put together. 

“And how well did that turn out for you?” Malfoy raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him haughtily. His heart squeezed. Even for Malfoy that was a low blow, and ever since that day he’d faced Tom Riddle at Hogwarts the space Sirius had filled in his life had become larger and more cavernous. The way the entire wizarding community had pulled together to rebuild had only made his lack of family even more stark - as much as he loved the Weasleys, he felt like an imposter in their grief.

“I’m older now. I’m wiser, better prepared.”

“Look, Potter. Don’t be under any illusion that I care about you. If you want to run off on another one of your hare-brained schemes so be it. But for once put your Gryffindor bullishness to one side and actually think about it. There’s a reason no one has tried to go there before. There’s a reason why it’s buried so deep in the Ministry only someone as idiotic as you has discovered it. Do you really think you stand a chance? Has it ever occurred to you what might happen if you don’t come back?” There was an edge to Malfoy’s tone, one of desperation and most likely fear. He was still pale, even with the angry red splotches on his cheeks, and although he was looking better than he had when Harry had last seen him, he didn’t exactly cut the healthiest of figures.

“You don’t understand,” Harry said quietly. It was ridiculous to even be having this conversation with Malfoy of all people. Harry had only come here to give him his wand back and to tell him that if anyone gave him trouble, he should let Harry know.

“What don’t I understand?” Malfoy leant forward, folding his arms on the table, his face softening into an expression that was almost pleasant. For Malfoy. Harry didn’t say anything. For all that Malfoy had gone through during the war, and Harry wouldn’t be the one to deny everyone had lost something, he had no comprehension of how Harry felt to have been so close to having a real family only for it to be ripped away again.

Malfoy leant forward even further and gripped Harry’s forearm across the table. Harry’s eyes widened at the unexpected contact. His hands were icy cold but his palm felt surprisingly smooth against Harry’s skin for someone who had played a lot of Quidditch at school.

“I don’t presume to know what it’s like to be you,” he began carefully, “but I do know that you should think very carefully about what you do have before chasing after something you don’t. You might be surprised to find that the grass isn’t always greener.” Harry would have been hacked off - hadn’t he already died and decided to come back? Hadn’t he already seen for himself that the grass wasn’t always greener? - but he was so shocked by the intimacy he daren’t say a word. People all around them were openly gawking at them.

Harry scrambled up from the table feeling utterly wrong-footed. He had come here to help _Malfoy_ , not to ask for help _from_ him. How dare he presume that there was anything he could advise Harry about. How dare he pretend like he hadn’t made one disastrous choice after another. How dare he tell Harry he shouldn’t pursue happiness when he had the one thing Harry had always wanted but had never had. 

“Please, Harry. Don’t do something you’ll regret. No one will save you this time.” Malfoy pinned him with such a piercing look that Harry’s insides turned to jelly, his name rolling off Malfoy’s tongue like he’d been using it for years. Was it possible that Malfoy knew more than he was letting on? Impossible. No one knew anything about the Department of Mysteries except the Unspeakables, and there was no way on earth Malfoy held a position as important as that.

Harry left the pub quickly, feeling fettled. Malfoy had the ability to strip Harry’s outer layer off like he was pealing an orange. If Harry had been less flustered, he might have noticed that the crowd of people nearby were not just the regular punters. If he had been less disconcerted by Malfoy’s display of something akin to warmth, he may have noticed the flash of a camera. As it happened, Harry noticed neither of these things. However, unbeknownst to him, Malfoy definitely had, and it would come back to bite them both later.


	2. Chapter 2

Friday 8th October 1999

The first time Harry remembered seeing Malfoy after they left school was one unsuspecting Wednesday evening when Ron had dragged Harry to an open mic night at a newly opened pub on Diagon called The Silver Fox. The room was close with all the people who had packed themselves in like sardines to listen. It was uncomfortable for Harry because he was always anxious about being recognised when he left the safety of his home, but the dim evening light and the sea of people afforded him rare anonymity.

Ron was already on his second pint, but Harry was sticking to club soda having had one too many close shaves with prying eyes and magical cameras recently. While Ron was slowly relaxing with the thrumming of acoustic guitars, Harry was starting to feel claustrophobic. He was about to step outside for a breath of cold autumn air when a familiar head of platinum blonde hair appeared near the speakers and he found himself rooted to the spot. Watching on, his heart in his throat, Harry observed as the blonde bombshell sat on a stool which the previous performer had chosen to ignore. Even the way her fingers worked to loosen the metal mic stand and adjust the microphone mesmerised Harry. They were covered in silver rings – some embedded with small clusters of jewels; rubies, emeralds, and the like; some worked into the shapes of flowers and one with a yellow diamond and winged shoulders that looked like a snitch.

His eyes roamed her appearance and although he was distracted by the heavy thumping of his heart in his chest, he found he was able to notice almost every detail of her. She was barefoot for starters; it reminded him of Luna Lovegood who often went barefoot and had Harry been watching Luna, there would have been nothing unusual about this. However, the woman sitting on the stool was a lot more Malfoyish than Luna and going barefoot was simply not the Malfoy way. It was even more strange to Harry that she was wearing yet more rings on her toes which were exposed by unseasonal sandals. She was dressed in a floaty dress with flowers all over it and a denim jacket, both of which must have been borrowed because Harry couldn’t imagine them being anything Lyra Malfoy would ever wear in a million years. Even her hair was wrapped around some kind of purple flower Harry couldn’t name. If it wasn’t for the sharp pointedness of her features and the cool greyness of her eyes when they locked with his, he would have thought it was Luna.

Malfoy looked at him unblinkingly. To him it felt as though the rest of the room was swept away and he was sucked into a vacuum. He hadn’t had any alcohol, or he would have been able to blame the strange feeling on inebriation, but his head was spinning as if he had been drinking for hours. He silently willed her to look away so that he could go back to breathing properly again, and so that his heart wouldn’t beat right out of his chest, but she seemed as stuck as he was. It was Harry who blinked first and instantaneously the spell was broken. Noise flooded back into his ears like a swarm of bees, drowning out his own thoughts and leaving him disorientated.

“Hey, is that Malfoy? Bloody hell.” Malfoy’s presence didn’t bother Ron nearly as much as it had Harry, but he could echo the surprise. Perhaps Malfoy was trying out a new look, or perhaps in the time since he had seen her last, she’d had a personality transplant.

“Yeah it is.” Harry said so quietly Ron probably didn’t even hear. He offered to get the next round in – even though it wasn’t his turn – since it would give him five minutes to collect himself. Ron barely even responded, just waved his hand vaguely as if it wasn’t even a question. It was impossible for Harry not to look back at Malfoy just once before he turned away to the bar. As if she knew he was watching her, she looked up from tuning one of the guitar strings and nodded almost imperceptibly at Harry. He turned away.

There was almost a fight on for the bar. Harry supposed that was what he got for agreeing to come out to the pub on its opening weekend. Elbows were flying everywhere, and drinks were sloshing up and over the edges of the glasses as people tried to extricate themselves once they’d made their purchases. Somehow, as always, Harry found a clear path to the already sticky wood. He could never quite tell if it was some kind of aura he gave off or if people always knew who he was and let him through. He never asked. It still took him a few minutes to get their drinks as the staff were rushed off their feet – some of the customers were already pissed and very impatient.

Trying very carefully not to soak the cuff of his jacket in Ron’s third pint, Harry didn’t notice the music as he made his way back to Ron. It was difficult to understand the layout of the pub when it was so full of people, but they were sat at the furthest extent from the bar, close to the area that had been demarked for the performers, with their backs to the door. Ultimately, they were trapped if they wanted to leave in the event of an emergency. Then again, Harry had never walked away from an emergency in his life. Once he’d placed the drinks down at the table, his brain registered what his ears had been hearing. Malfoy was covering a song Harry had heard over and over on the radio but was surprised that Malfoy knew it since it was written by a muggle band.

_So tell me when you’re gonna let me in_

_I’m getting tired and I need somewhere to begin…_

The song was softer than the version Harry was familiar with in the absence of any piano. Malfoy sang it slower too, like she had all the time in the world to hit each note with perfect clarity. Harry had no idea Malfoy could sing like that – her voice was soft and rich, and it floated up to the higher notes as if it took no effort at all. It was as though a summer breeze was sweeping through the room and ruffling Harry’s hair, although he seemed to be the only one who felt that way.

_And if you have a minute, why don't we go_

_Talk about it somewhere only we know?_

Ron was trying to say something to Harry, but he couldn’t hear it. It was as though nothing on earth existed except for Harry, Malfoy, and her guitar. Her fingers sliding lightly over the strings and her eyes never leaving Harry’s. If he didn’t already know the song, he’d have thought she was singing to _him_. When the song ended, Harry half expected something momentous to happen because there was no way he would ever feel quite the same again.

Whilst Harry was having an existential crisis, Malfoy’s expression returned to the same impassive one most associated her with until she was ready to sing the next song. She didn’t make any attempts to engage with the audience like some of the others had.

_I would like to leave this city_

_This old town don't smell too pretty and_

_I can feel the warning signs running around my mind_

Harry couldn’t stand to listen to her much longer. With the delicate notes of the second song the whole pub had descended into silence and Harry’s claustrophobia had become unbearable. The air crackled against his skin like it was charged. His seat nearly tumbled to the floor with the force with which he stood but after teetering dangerously on its back legs it clattered back down. Whether it was the expression on his face or the fact he was the only person in the room moving besides the bar staff he couldn’t tell, but the crowd of people parted for him like the Red Sea and he got out in record time.

The heavy pub door slammed loudly when he stepped outside, having been shoved closed by the strong wind that was whistling through the alley. Other than the flickering lights of the pub, Diagon Alley was quiet. A handful of the shops that had closed had never been bought up and reopened – it had taken years for the street to slowly recover as everything settled into normalcy. In the dark, Fred’s face loomed ominously, the moonlight catching his features wrong and casting frowning shadows over him. Harry had come to think of the face of Weasley Wizard Wheezes as Fred, even though it had originally been intended as both twins in one. It made him feel like Fred was still there with them, watching over the business and tipping his hat in greeting whenever anyone walked by. Harry had never said so aloud, but he was sure that if he did his friends would probably agree.

Malfoy’s whereabouts had never occurred to Harry until now. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had seen her. Surely someone who looked as stunning as she did would be hard to wipe from his memory. Had her hair always been wavy like that? He would have noticed seeing her barefoot, wouldn’t he? Somehow, he couldn’t imagine Lucius Malfoy encouraging Lyra to wander around in any state of undress, no matter how trivial. He imagined Lucius sitting at their breakfast table in formal robes. He shivered as he pushed the unwelcome images of those rooms from his mind.

His heart began to settle into a steadier rhythm as he took another measured lungful of chilly air. It seemed that as he calmed down a throbbing sensation began in his temples and his ears started to ring. It was a long time since he’d been somewhere as loud as that. Ron hadn’t followed him outside – he’d maintained that ability to read Harry better than anyone, even Hermione. Harry supposed he wouldn’t mind if he went home, but part of him thought it would be awful to abandon Ron with Malfoy of all people. Then again, Malfoy probably didn’t want to go near Ron any more than Ron wanted to go near Malfoy.

Which reminded him that he hadn’t spoken to Luna in a long time. Maybe if he’d kept in better contact, he’d know full well what was going on with Malfoy. The two of them were thick as thieves – or so Harry had been told – and were often mistaken for twins because of their hair. He’d dare say they looked more similar than Ron and Percy ever had. It would probably look obvious if he were to take sudden interest in Luna now, but he didn’t like how unsettled seeing Malfoy had made him. He was ready to swallow his pride and go back in when the door swung open.

“You alright mate?” Ron held Harry’s jacket out to him. He had forgotten about it completely. Harry couldn’t figure out what to say to him. “Bit weird seeing Malfoy again, isn’t it? I’d almost forgotten what she looked like.”

“Yeah,” Harry laughed although it wasn’t really funny. He noticed Ron looking up at the shop as Harry had.

“How’s business?”

“Good. Really good, actually. Sometimes makes me wonder if he-” Ron wasn’t able to finish for his voice cracking.

“He’d be proud. He wouldn’t have wanted George taking it all on by himself.” Ron glanced back at Harry and gave him a weak smile. They never talked about Fred, but Harry got the impression Ron took it the hardest of all the siblings – maybe even more so than George. George was adamant that it was impossible to lose a twin because he could always tell what Fred was thinking.

“It’s weird. There being another pub in the middle of Diagon, I mean. It’s always just been the Leaky.” Harry mirrored Ron in looking down the street. It was unrecognisable compared to how it had looked when Harry first arrived with Hagrid. The Quidditch supply shop was still there, as was the menagerie and the apothecary, but Gambol and Japes had eventually gone out of business – unable to compete with the Weasleys. Fortescue had died a few years ago and the ice cream parlour had become an artisan coffee shop which Hermione loved but Harry thought was way overpriced. Madam Malkin had moved her shop up to York where the wizard community had grown exponentially since the war. The _Prophet_ claimed it was a result of so many people suffering trauma wanting to leave London behind. Harry could well imagine that was true, although he hated to agree with the _Prophet_ about anything.

“I like it. It feels different.” Harry cast a warming charm over the both of them and suggested they head home with a nod of his head. So many years of friendship meant they didn’t really need to communicate verbally a lot of the time.

They started walking away from the joke shop and past Flourish and Blotts. Harry had a newfound appreciation for the bookshop since he had discovered reading was actually quite fun when he had glasses which were the right prescription with no cracks across the lenses. Hermione sometimes dragged him to the secondhand bookshop at the other end of the alley, but he wasn’t as fascinated by inscriptions or first editions as she was. His steps fell perfectly in sync with Ron’s without him really trying, and their boots echoed around the cobbles, and around Harry’s head and his ever-building headache.

Harry very carefully apparated them home, something he shouldn’t really do since Ron had had three pints but that he often did anyway. It was a good decision because he fell flat on his face when they reached their destination and definitely wouldn’t have survived a trip via the floo network. They had been out all day and their small flat was dark and cold. The sort of cold that made you feel damp as well as chilled. Harry immediately lit the fire and turned the mismatched lamps on as Ron hauled himself up off the floor and collapsed in the scruffy armchair Harry had rescued from Grimmauld before he had sold it.

“Where’s Hermione when you need her?” Ron muffled from the cushion he had buried his face in.

“You broke up with her, Ron. You can’t complain when she’s not here waiting with a cup of tea.” Harry shuffled off into the kitchen to put the kettle on because despite still being teenagers, neither of them could sleep without a cuppa. In a way it was probably a good thing Hermione wasn’t here waiting with a cup of tea because they’d have been kept awake for at least an hour longer listening to another of her rants about not becoming a Stepford Wife. She wasn’t likely to become any kind of wife any time soon.

“Yeah, well, I did what I had to do.” Ron muttered into the cushions. Harry didn’t think it was a wise topic of conversation for the time being. It had only been a month since their big split, and with everything else still being so raw, neither of them seemed to know what to do without each other. Harry had mercifully been spared the agony of having to choose one friend over the other, but it wasn’t easy. When Hermione had found out Ron was staying with Harry it had very nearly been the end of their friendship, but thankfully there were some bonds that weren’t broken so easily, and Hermione conceded that at the very least Ron couldn’t move back home to The Burrow where Molly was still crying at every small reminder of Fred, not to mention her inability to look at or speak to George.

A noise startled him as he was waiting for the kettle to boil. It was a small scuffing sound coming from the hallway. Harry was certain he’d locked the front door before they left since he knew they’d be returning by magical means. It was too cold at this time of year to leave the windows open and half the time they were wedged shut anyway with all the rain swelling the wooden frames.

He slowly made his way to the kitchen door, his hand hovering over his wand, ready to attack an intruder. As usual the ancient door creaked as Harry slowly pushed it open, and he was sure he was about to get smacked on the head and dragged out into the night. Of course, the universe was out to make him look like a fool, as he stepped out into the hallway and discovered the scratching sound was coming from a fox of all things.

Harry had never seen anything like it. He had seen a fox before, obviously, but usually they were a burnt orange sort of colour. This one was a soft greyish-white and was currently pawing furiously at the wooden flooring. As the light from the kitchen shone over it, it looked up at Harry with eyes so light he could almost see right through them and began whining in a horrible high-pitched screech. It was such an unusual sight that he stood there staring at the creature as if it would wander off if he left it long enough. When it sensed that its whining wasn’t enough, it came over to Harry and started pawing at his legs instead. It seemed rather domesticated for a fox – Harry was under the impression that they were often violent things – and he assumed it was someone’s pet which had escaped and miraculously found its way into the flat instead.

“The bloody hell is that racket?” Ron appear behind Harry and blocked the kitchen light. The fox immediately ceased making a sound and as Harry peered through the darkness, he could see the fox curling up at his feet, its fur acting like a mini furnace.

“I think we have a visitor.”

“A visitor? Is that- is that a fox? Blimey.” Ron stared at Harry blankly. What was the appropriate course of action when one finds a possibly wild animal in their home? And a fox at that. If it was a dog or a cat Harry could have easily held out until morning, but foxes were supposedly very dangerous when kept shut in. It did seem so very…calm though. Cautiously, he leant down to the fox’s level. It stopped its pawing and looked at him with its pale blue eyes. Up close Harry could see its fur was a blend of soft greys and whites. Its teeth looked sharp and menacing the way they were bared at Harry, but the fox seemed to be panting with excitement. Tentatively, Harry reached his hand out and it sunk into the thick fur.

“Harry, I don’t think you should-” Ron’s warning died in his throat because the fox had collapsed on the floor and rolled over on its back, whining for attention. Overcoming the shock a little, Harry could only think of how bizarre the whole thing was, and for the first time wondered if perhaps keeping to the club soda hadn’t worked and instead he was on a bad trip from a spiked drink. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“We need to find it somewhere to sleep.”

“You must be mad! We can’t keep a fox in here!”

“We can’t let it out in the street either!” Ron looked like he wanted to argue with Harry, but he held his tongue. Next came the question of how Harry was supposed to get the blighter out of the hallway and into the kitchen. It seemed quite taken with Harry for some unknown reason but hoping it would simply follow was pointless. Harry’s hand had stilled in the fox’s fur while he thought, and it didn’t like no longer being centre of attention. It sat up and began whining again. Taking his life in his hands once more, Harry dared to lift the animal up and carry it through the doorway. It hissed and spat at him, clawing at his arms and leaving angry red welts.

“Mate I really don’t think this is a good idea. Shouldn’t we call someone to take it away? It could be diseased.” It was very unlike Ron not to want to help, but he had been having a horrible time of it recently and Harry understood that this was probably the last thing he needed.

“It’ll just be for tonight. It’s late, you’ve been drinking and I’m really tired. It’d be better to deal with it when we’ve slept.” Even as he said it he was thinking it was probably just a dream or a hallucination induced by a long and difficult week. As soon as he let go of the silver fox it skittered across the room and into the corner where it bared its teeth at them. Ron finally took some initiative and filled a bowl of water while Harry retrieved a sofa cushion to transfigure into a bed. He wasn’t sure the fox would sleep in it but even if it didn’t, he felt like he’d at least tried.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m shattered.” Ron yawned loudly and stretched his arms high above his head. Harry was exhausted too and a glance at the clock told him it was already nearly two in the morning. He was sure it hadn’t been that late when they’d got back. The scratches on his forearms throbbed as if in warning.

“Do you need some help with that?” Ron asked him, concern etched all over his face.

“No, no, it’s fine.” Harry kept a healthy medical supply out of habit now. Ron nodded and left to go to bed. Harry listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall and he turned back to the fox still cowering in the corner. Ignoring the sting of the scratches on his arms, he tried to coax the poor thing towards the makeshift bed. It wouldn’t budge from the corner.

Struck with a sudden idea, Harry opened the fridge. There wasn’t much in there because he was terrible at remembering to buy food and regularly ordered in, but there was some leftover chicken he hadn’t figured out what to do with. He had no idea what foxes ate, although he was certain a wild fox wouldn’t eat cooked meat, but he thought it was worth a try. Tearing the chicken into smaller pieces he fed a couple to the scared animal, which calmed down enough that it stopped growling at him, but it took a few attempts to get it to sniff out its temporary bed. Eventually it would stand in it, but it wouldn’t lie down. Harry decided that was good enough because his arms were really quite painful, and he needed to sleep himself. He quickly covered the kitchen in cushioning charms and went to the bathroom to heal himself.

A quick scourgify and some essence of dittany later and it looked like his arms would be fine. Ron was already snoring loudly at the far end of the flat and Harry felt bone tired. Of course, as soon as he tried to go to bed, the screeching started up again. Once, a long time ago, Harry had remembered seeing a medical magazine at a doctor’s appointment his Aunt Petunia had taken him to when he’d caught chicken pox. In one of the articles he vaguely remembered that when children cried in the night, parents weren’t supposed to give them too much attention because it taught them their crying would work. He couldn’t believe he was applying child psychology to a fox, but surely the same principle applied?

Except human children did not make inhuman noises that jarred in Harry’s ears. The same scratching sound had joined the crying, so he went back into the kitchen. The fox was running around the room trying to attack everything within its reach. Luckily the cushioning charms were protecting the surfaces, but it was horrible to hear anyway. He considered casting a silencing charm and going to bed, and probably would have too, except this was clearly an animal in distress and he couldn’t leave it.

“Hey…” he whispered into the darkness. Immediately the fox was quiet, regarding Harry carefully. It slowly crept back to the bed Harry had made as if it knew what Harry expected it to do. It was indeed a clever fox.

Turning to leave again, Harry’s heart sank when another pitiful cry came from the ball of fluff. If he weren’t so tired, he might have persisted, but all he wanted to do was sleep. He walked through to the living room, casting the same charms as he had in the kitchen, and duplicated one of the sofa cushions to replace the one he had used for the fox’s bed. It was whining at him again.

“Shhh, shhh. I’m staying here, ok? Just here.” He pointed to the sofa he was preparing to sleep on as if the fox could understand English. The fox was quiet, watching him with an unnerving gleam in its eyes. “I’m going to stay here until morning and then we’re going to take you home, okay?” It blinked once at him, its wide eyes shining in the tiny sliver of light coming in through the curtains. It seemed to be assessing what Harry was saying and, deciding it approved of his plan, lay down in the bed.

Harry’s shoulders sagged with relief that he had for now tamed his new friend. It was a very reasonable fox, he mused wearily as he snuggled under a blanket he had lifted from the arm of the sofa, perhaps it’s a magic fox.

By the time Harry finally fell asleep, he had entirely forgotten about Malfoy and her strange clothing, her strange music. In fact, if it hadn’t been for some unusual dreams about silver fur that morphed into silver hair, he might have forgotten that Malfoy existed at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know the songs I used make no chronological sense, but they're wizards. It's magic.
> 
> PS, sorry if there are mistakes. I'm tired and I only semi-proofread.


	3. Chapter 3

Six months ago

Monday 22nd February 1999

In the months that had passed since Potter’s disappearance, Draco’s only thought had been to protect the secret they shared. Potter had never demanded Draco’s silence and Draco hadn’t offered, but somehow Draco knew in his bones that this was not the time to be running his mouth to Rita Skeeter. He couldn’t help feeling somehow responsible for Potter’s disappearance. He had known Potter was planning something, and even if he hadn’t known when, if he had told someone where he was going, they might have been able to find him.

Draco had been agonising over it for months. It had even got to the point where he had constructed a Venn diagram (which he discovered in a muggle mathematics book buried in his old school things – clearly not his own) which weighed up the pros and cons of his silence. In the _Reasons To Tell_ section, he had written:

  * Potter might come back
  * ~~He actually sort of misses the bastard~~
  * Potter might be in danger
  * If he died it would be his fault



In the _Reasons To Keep My Mouth_ Shut section, he had included:

  * Potter might come back
  * AZKABAN
  * Being irritated by Potter again
  * He has his wand back



Then there was that strange middle section which was for those things that fell into both camps:

  * Potter’s face everywhere



If Potter was back, there would be just as many articles written about him, but at least they’d be less gloomy.

It was this silly muggle diagram that Draco was ruminating on over breakfast when he was disturbed by his oldest friend.

“Oh bloody hell Draco, are you still an absolute misery?” Pansy flounced into the breakfast room, having been showed in by Tressy, and draped a napkin over her lap dramatically before helping herself to bacon and toast like she owned the place. Draco himself hadn’t managed a single mouthful yet; the cavernous guilt eating away at him being quite the appetite suppressant.

“Good morning to you to, Parkinson.”

There were posters everywhere Draco turned proffering ideas as to Potter’s whereabouts. Some thought him a runaway; unable to take the pressure of his celebrity. Some were convinced he had been murdered and tried to stir up mass hysteria every week. The ones that gave Draco the most amusement were the ones concocting the strangest conspiracy theories about what had happened. The most amusing so far came from _The Quibbler_ which theorised Potter had been lured into the sea by sirens where he now ruled over the merpeople. Draco had witnessed Potter’s ungainly attempt to use gillyweed and that scenario was about as likely as Draco moving to Morocco and burning his porcelain skin in the scorching sun every day. One thing was true – Harry Potter had been missing for five months and Draco was the only person who knew where he went.

 _“I need to know what happened to him. If there’s anything I could do to- I don’t know. I just…I don’t have anyone else.”_ Draco remembered how lost Potter had looked, how sad.

“ _Your godfather is gone, Potter. You know that, and I know that. I’m very sorry for the hurt my family had caused you, truly I am, but going through that veil is a suicide mission and it won’t bring Sirius back.”_ He had tried his best to talk Potter out of his terrible plan, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it.

Until then Draco hadn’t even known the veil was real. It had only ever been the stuff of legend. The entire point of it, so Draco had heard, was that it was a gateway to the beyond. The one point of contact between the living and the dead. A one-way system. He himself had never seen it, only heard about it from his father, but he never wanted to go near it if it could be avoided. In a bizarre sort of way, Draco understood why Potter had done it. Potter had never expected to survive The Dark Lord – and to some extent neither had Draco – and he probably thought he had nothing to lose by trying. Except Potter hadn’t had to deal with the consequences.

The Weasleys had be splattered all over the news coverage in those early weeks, looking tearstained and even more bedraggled than usual. It occurred to Draco at the time that the Weasleys considered themselves Potter’s family, which made it all the sadder that Potter felt he had no one. He had tried very hard not to think about the lives that had been lost after he had let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, but even he couldn’t help but think that one son was enough for the Weasleys to lose, they shouldn’t have to lose Potter too.

Draco went through these thoughts every time an article ran about Potter, which was frequently. Investigations had been going on ever since Potter had disappeared and it was only a matter of time before someone connected the dots and realised Draco was one of the last people to see him. It wasn’t possible for Draco to know exactly when Potter went to the DoM, but it can’t have been long after they spoke. The pictures taken of them had never surfaced and it was both a blessing and a curse; out there in the open Draco would immediately have been under suspicion, but knowing those images were being kept quiet stopped him sleeping at night.

“Earth to Draco?”

“Hm?” Draco snapped back into the present.

“I was trying to tell you about the huge engagement party Astoria is throwing. She wanted to know if it would be appropriate to invite you.” She stared at him over the rim of her coffee cup but if it was an outburst she was looking for, she wouldn’t get one.

“I would be delighted,” he told her distractedly. He didn’t care about Astoria’s engagement particularly – it was a blessing that their own engagement had fallen through. She was a lovely girl but there was no love lost between them. They were far too young to be getting married anyway, why the Greengrasses were so keen he couldn’t fathom.

“Excellent! I’m sure your invite will arrive soon.” Pansy was bubbling with excitement at being asked to be one of Astoria’s bridesmaids. If he had been feeling his usual self, Draco would have pointed out that the only reason Pansy was asked was because as Daphne Greengrass’ only female friend, she was one of the only acceptable people to ask. Every pureblood family was careful who to associate themselves with now, and although Pansy wasn’t exactly Potter’s best friend after she’d offered him to the Dark Lord, she was one of the few Slytherins from respectable families who wasn’t associated with the Death Eaters. It was a wonder Draco was even considered for an invite, but he supposed if they ruled _everyone_ out it would be a rather quiet affair.

Come to think of it, Potter had probably forgiven Pansy by now. Heaven knew Draco didn’t deserve to be forgiven but he had been, and he’d done far worse than Pansy ever had. If Potter never came back perhaps Pansy would stay partially outcast forever. But Draco refused to believe Potter was dead, despite all the evidence stacked against him. No one really knew what was behind the veil as far as he could tell, and Potter had defied the laws of nature on so many occasions Draco wouldn’t put it past him to do it again. Besides, he just had this… _feeling._

“Draco? Honestly, are you even on this planet today?” Pansy was looking down at Draco’s eggs which were being massacred by his fork instead of eaten.

“I’m sorry. What exactly are you doing here?” Her eyes flashed at his rudeness, but she ignored the question.

“Are you thinking about Potter again? Or your little project? I really can’t decide which is worse. Probably mooning over Potter, but then I would so love to watch you coughing up fur balls.” A couple of weeks ago, Pansy had showed up unannounced (a developing theme with her) and found Draco researching animagi. Not long after he had met Potter, he had been placed under house arrest after his appeal against his war conviction was rejected. To save himself from going mad in the Manor all day, he had decided to explore some of the more complex magic that wasn’t taught in Hogwarts. Not dark magic of course, but his current fixation was on animagi and more specifically, how to become one.

“Honestly. It was bad enough when your pathetic arse couldn’t just be fucking nice to him in the first place, but then you had to go and-” Pansy waved a teaspoon around in her hand as she gesticulated, but Draco wasn’t really listening. His mind had wandered back to the pages of his father’s old books. He had quickly discovered that becoming an animagus was a lot more complex than he thought. He had made it through a month of holding a mandrake leaf in his mouth even though made him wretch eat time it was disturbed from its position under his tongue – the resulting weightless from his lack of appetite still hadn’t quite recovered – however he wasn’t making much progress beyond that.

The next step was to create the corresponding potion with what was left of the leaf, but that was proving difficult. It wasn’t so easy for him to move freely even among the grounds of the Manor, and any scavenging or night-time activity would immediately be suspicious. Not to mention the fact that his house arrest didn’t allow for any deliveries that weren’t authorised by his probation officer – and there was no good reason for him having the chrysalis of a Death's-head Hawk Moth. Try saying that in a hurry.

“And then all that silly business with your mother. Of course, having a gay son isn’t exactly ideal for a pureblood, but times are changing Draco. And unless you take a stand nothing will ever get better for you…” Pansy continued as Draco’s mind was elsewhere.

No Malfoy had ever managed an animagus transformation, since Veela heritage had made the shift impossible, but Draco wanted to be the one to do it. The Veela blood in him was so infinitesimal now that the only trait he really had was the colouring. Maybe the viciousness, but that depended on who you asked.

Pansy was beginning to get exasperated by Draco’s inattentiveness. He should probably be careful not to push her away too – Blaise wouldn’t even talk to him anymore because he was sick of either being ignored or hearing Draco complain about Potter, or a lack of Potter. Blaise had also taken the disappearance badly since he had a massive crush on Potter. Not that Draco had a crush of course. Draco was purely concerned about the implications of the knowledge he possessed.

“I just feel like I should be doing something, you know?” Draco interrupted as Pansy moved on to talk about Theo’s new position as a teaching assistant at Hogwarts. “This is Potter. Surely if they could find him, they’d have done it by now? They must have every resource available looking for him…” Pansy sighed into her coffee, frustrated he had interrupted her mid-flow, placing it her delicately back down before responding.

“Draco, darling, I know you’re taking this hard, but has it occurred to you that maybe Potter doesn’t _want_ to be found? If I were him, I’d have cut my loses years ago. You’ve seen the way they mob him in the streets, it’s no way to live.” As she spoke Draco stared at the smudge of bright red lipstick in the left corner of her mouth. Only she would show up to his house for a breakfast date at eight in the morning with a full face of make up and stilettos.

An uncomfortable tightness coiled in his gut. He had mulled over the whole thing so many times that he could practically see Potter’s determined face slipping through the Ministry wards. However, as much as Draco had pondered his complicity, never once had it occurred to him that Potter might have _chosen_ not to come back. Maybe he’d found exactly what he was looking for and didn’t see any reason to come back to Draco. Any reason to come back. Period. Not to Draco.

 _Or he could be dead, and no one will ever know unless you tell them._ That wasn’t a situation Draco was willing to accept. At varying points of desperation, he had ever considered going into the Ministry and finding Potter himself, but the consequences of being caught were more than he could bear. He was already watched everywhere he went, which was precisely nowhere.

“Potter’s not like that.” He concluded. “There’s no way he would just abandon m-everything.”

She smirked. “Meverything?” His friends had ribbed him constantly at school for his Potter obsession, but only Pansy had ever known the truest extent of it. It was possible that the others had cottoned on, but he developed fixations so easily that it was unlikely. If only he had told her the truth about what happened…

When he didn’t respond, she tried a different tactic. “So, tell me about this project of yours.” She waved her hand idly and refilled her coffee while Draco managed a couple of mouthfuls of his mangled, and now cold, eggs.

“It’s going nowhere.” _Much like me._ Before he could get onto physically preparing himself, the _Amato Animo Animato Animagus_ book said that it was important to prepare the mind. This involved trying to envisage what sort of animal he would be, what form he would take, whether it be small, or large, or scaly, or furry. If he could see the vague outline of his form, it would help his body shape itself better. It made sense in theory, but practically it had been useless so far.

“It’ll come to you. It’s not as if you’ve got anything better to do.”

Just as Draco was lifting his cup to his mouth, a thundering rumble rippled through the room. He jumped so violently that his hot coffee sloshed over the side of the cup and scalded his hand, the rest landing on his plate and puddling in a murky brown sludge.

“Shit!” He hissed, wiping his hand with his napkin and peering with dismay at his reddened hand. The pitfalls of highly sensitive skin.

“Who the heck is banging on your door at this time in the morning?” Draco rolled his eyes. As if the world’s working day hadn’t already begun.

“Whoever it is, Tressy will show them through if it’s important.” Sure enough, a couple of minutes later their guest, or guests, arrived at the breakfast room door. However, while Draco had expected cordial greetings and offers of tea, he was about to find his pitiful breakfast curtailed.

Two burly Hit Wizards crashed through the thick mahogany doors just like they had when they’d come to raid the Manor after his father’s arrest. One was built like Vince; tall and broad with a head slightly too small for his body. The other one had long, greasy hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Draco shuddered.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” Draco asked politely. He didn’t look Pansy’s way, but he could tell she was tense. The room had stilled unnaturally as the two wizards tried, and failed, to stare Draco down.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, Lord of Malfoy Manor?” Ponytail spoke with a deep and rasping voice and a faint West Country accent. The title made Draco cringe, but he kept his face impassive.

“Yes.” They were interrupted as Tressy, and three other elves behind her like a tiny angry mob, appeared in the room with a crack.

“Master Malfoy, sir, Tressy is being very sorry, sir.” She stood on trembling knees, wringing her hands like a dishcloth. He felt a pang of sympathy for her – she was one of their younger elves and had not been in service at the Manor during the war. She’d probably had rather a horrible shock. “They was not giving Tressy their names or telling Tressy their purpose for their visiting, sir. Tressy-” Draco held up a silencing hand.

“No matter Tressy, you are not in trouble. Please, leave us.” Tressy’s large eyes watered, and she wiped her nose on her grubby sleeve. Draco had never once regretted his decision to give the elves clothes. He could rest easier knowing the elves still at the Manor were there because they wanted to be, not because they had to be. She didn’t look as if she wanted to leave, but when one of her friends, Simon, nudged her on the shoulder, she conceded. He was touched by her loyalty.

Interlude over, the Hit Wizards seemed to spring back into action, pulling Draco out of his seat with a large, meaty hands. The one who looked like a cheap version of Vince broke the news.

“Lord Malfoy, you are under arrest on the charge of kidnap of one Harry James Potter, Order of Merlin First Class.” Quite what Potter’s Order of Merlin had to do with it was beyond Draco, but that was hardly important. Time seemed to slow as the rope flowed from the Hit Wizard’s wand to bind Draco’s hand. In the same slow, muggy sort of way Draco looked to Pansy and absently registered the shock on her face turn to outrage. He was unsurprised how unfeeling he was; he’d convinced himself that this was an eventuality anyway.

Suddenly, with an outburst from Pansy, time was restored.

She leapt up from the table, sending cutlery flying everywhere. “YOU CAN’T ARREST HIM! HE HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT! Is this because he was a Death Eater? Because it’s _discrimination._ ” She was screeching at the Hit Wizards as they checked the strength of Draco’s painfully tight bonds. Draco wished she would shut up before she made anything worse, but his words failed him. He knew full well it had less to do with his history and more to do with that meeting at the Leaky Cauldron.

As he was dragged from the room, his head began to spin. He was hit with flashes of the first time he had been arrested, albeit in a less calm fashion than Ponytail and Knock-Off Vince. Back then the Aurors had stormed into the Great Hall where Draco and his parents had been sitting, bewildered and largely ignored, and demanded they be brought to the Ministry that instant. He saw flashes of dusty emerald green robes as Professor McGonagall had tried to reason with them. Most of the words were lost to him now, but he remembered as the bloody supply to his fingers dwindled that she had tried to plead his case as a minor. Perhaps he had never appreciated the Gryffindor Head of House nearly enough; she may have been strict, but she was fiercely protective of all her students.

“And why the hell are you letting them do this?!” Pansy rounded on Draco. She was running behind Draco as he was escorted out of his home, her thin heels clacking loudly on the marble flooring in the hall. There was no way to explain himself to her without implicating himself further in the accusation. He could only look at her pleadingly.

“It’ll all get cleared up in the end, don’t worry.” He tried to placate her, but her face was ashen. It only made her vibrant lipstick stark against her rapidly greying pallor.

“We are escorting you to the Ministry of Magic where you will be held for questioning.” Ponytail continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. Yanking painfully on Draco’s arm to hurry him along. All he wanted was to reassure Pansy that he was ok but given the situation anything he said to her would be a lie.

Pansy followed them all the way out of the house and down the long driveway until they were off Malfoy property where Draco was promptly apparated away. Her indignant shouting rang in his ears and the image of the elves staring mournfully out of the first-floor windows was burned into the back of his mind. Before he could recover from the discomfort of side-along apparition, he was being dragged unceremoniously forward. Trying not to trip over his own feet, he realised the indignity of his situation. He was being escorted through the middle of the Atrium, where both Ministry employees and visitors alike could witness what was happening – and witness they did.

He had been resigned back at the Manor, but the reality hit him as he was dragged into the heart of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There would be no one to come for him; to pay his bail or to explain their way out of it. If he was lucky Pansy would get him a decent lawyer, but most of the good ones wouldn’t work with the likes of him.

By the time they arrived at Level 2, Draco’s heart was pounding in his ears and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with fear. His arms were no doubt turning purple in the grip of the Hit Wizards, but he dared not utter a word. He was brought to a large desk where a group of Patrol Wizards were standing in a crowd. This was where he would be registered and taken to a holding cell before questioning. He’d now experienced this situation both knowing what was in store and not, and he wasn’t sure which was worse.

Behind the desk stood a tall, willowy looking witch with a full head of bright orange hair that curled oddly under her ears. She wore big jam jar glasses which clashed with her DMLE robes. If it weren’t an important and occasionally dangerous job, she could easily have been mistaken for an intern.

“Lord Malfoy.” Knock-Off Crabbe grunted. “Requested by Head Auror Robards.” Draco raised his eyebrows in surprise. To have a warrant out for his arrest authorised by the Head Auror himself was not to be taken lightly. Of course, no one wanted to be the face of the DMLE when faced with the responsibility of a missing Harry Potter, so Draco presumed the Head Auror was taking a hands-on role. That didn’t bode well.

The woman produced two sets of paperwork for the Hit Wizards to fill in and she was joined by a stooped middle-aged man who was the first to speak to Draco directly. Luckily the paperwork meant Draco was temporarily released from the tight grip, although his hands were still bound.

“Have the read ye yer rights lad?” He asked Draco in a broad Yorkshire accent. Draco shook his head mutely. “Aye, they do everything cack-handed ‘ere.” Draco had no idea what cack-handed meant, but he nodded again so as not to cause trouble. The girl with the orange hair handed the completed paperwork to the talkative Yorkshireman. “Champion!” He said happily and wandered off with it.

“You understand the charges?” The girl asked him with a squeaky voice.

“Yes.”

“Good. You will be escorted to a cell where you will be held pending questioning. You have the right to seek legal representation. If you cannot provide your own, legal counsel will be provided for you. You are entitled to one floo call which someone will be sent to your holding cell to arrange. Is there anything you wish to say? I must advise you that you do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” Draco got the impression that all of this was being done in a crazy backwards order. He should have been cautioned when the Hit Wizards arrived at the Manor. He didn’t even know who he could call.

“I have nothing to say.” He in fact had several things he’d like to say, but he didn’t dare say any of them. He was searched roughly for any personal times, although he had none. His wand had been abandoned at the kitchen table when they’d arrived to take him. Satisfied that he had nothing on him but rather expensive but now scruffy shirt on his back, he was taken away.

The Hit Wizards resumed their painful grip on him and led him down a narrow corridor painted a sickly shade of yellow with very narrow doors either side and no windows. Not even the fake charmed ones that were all over the other departments of the Ministry. They turned left, then right, then left again until the rabbit warren opened out into a wide corridor with a polished floor and wide metal doors. He was quite literally thrown into the nearest one, a blanket and a pillow thrown at him, and the door was slammed shut, leaving him in darkness.

The pitch black was disorientating, and Draco tumbled to the floor having not been unbound. He lay there spread-eagled for a minute before he figured out how to haul himself up with his hands numb and tied behind his back. He tried to pull his hands free, but the ties cut into his wrists further and rubbed his skin raw. There was nothing he could do but haul himself up and onto the rickety metal bed with the thin mattress. It was difficult not to be dismayed at the state of the cell, with its peeling walls and smell of damp, but he knew it was a lot better than Azkaban would be if he ended up there. He had escaped doing time in the wizard prison thus far, however he was skating on alarmingly thin ice.

While he waited for someone to arrive who could unite him and offer him the phone call he was entitled to, he sat there pondering who he could call and what he would say. Pansy was no use; she already knew where he was and what she could do.

Hours and hours went by and no one came for him and it became harder to keep a level head. It shouldn’t have been surprising that he wasn’t going to be treated fairly. This was the same justice department which at one time had been under his father’s thumb. A few more hours and he would be in danger of losing his fingers, the feeling never having returned yet. The small space he had to wiggle his fingers in was not enough to keep his circulation flowing. He had tried banging on the thick metal door, but all it did was make his foot sore in the thin, leather-soled shoes he was wearing.

In the end he slumped back down on the unstable bed and closed his watering eyes, unable to fend off the scenarios he had been surreptitiously avoiding for ages. He saw Potter’s body lying cold on the floor in the Department of Mysteries having failed to make it through the veil. Draco had never actually been inside the DoM, so all his brain could conjure was the sight of Potter’s gaunt face crushed into the ground in a sea of blackness much like Draco’s holding cell. Then he imagined Potter reunited with Black – the same scraggly dark hair as he had had in those wanted posted when he’d escaped but now fuller in the face and wearing real clothes instead of Azkaban rags. He imagined the two of them sitting together, laughing. Maybe they were laughing at a bad joke Potter had told, or maybe they were laughing at Draco sitting there in the dark.

When he could no longer discern how long he had sat there, when the numbness in his hands had become more painful than he could bear, when it was impossible to discern the day from the night, his determinism failed him. He curled in the foetal position on the uncomfortable bed. He cried himself to fitful sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Saturday 9th October 1999

Harry had promised Ron that he was only allowing the fox to stay in the flat until he could figure out what to do with it, but that wasn’t exactly true. Straight away he was drawn to it. After all, why would a silver fox just _happen_ to wander into their flat? As far as he knew, they hadn’t left any doors or windows open. His instincts told him it was purposeful.

He had woken up with a terrible crick in his neck. He was sleeping under a hideous Canons blanket, the garish orange hurting his eyes. For a minute he couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t in his bed. The light was streaming through the window, wholly unperturbed by the ravaged curtains that hung there. It was miraculous enough that he had slept through the night, he supposed it would be too much to ask for there to be nothing out of place. Foxes were fundamentally wild animals after all.

Blinking into the blaring sunlight until his eyes adjusted, he glanced around to find no sign of silver anywhere in the room besides the bed he had transfigured the night before which was crumpled and covered in white hairs. It was mercifully intact however, unlike the curtains, which was a significant relief.

The flat was quiet as Harry walked through to the kitchen. The water he had left out for the fox was empty, but there was no sign of his furry refugee anywhere. Harry really needed a shower, but he also needed to make sure his fox wasn’t destroying the flat somewhere out of site. The idea that perhaps the fox had only needed a shelter for the night and had taken off before he woke made Harry’s heart squeeze uncomfortably.

He was in luck however, because he found the fox when he went to the bathroom. Well, he didn’t exactly find the fox, more the fox’s destruction. It had clearly made the most of the opportunity to explore away from Harry’s watchful gaze. The collection of cologne bottles and deodorant sticks had been knocked off the shelf and were scattered all over the floor. A glass bottle of foundation left behind by Hermione was shattered, its dark contents splattered all over the pale floor tiles and up the side of the bathtub.

There was a scuffling from the bath and Harry’s attention was immediately piqued. It was then that he noticed the shower curtain had been ripped from its hooks and was crumpled in the bottom of the bath. It was the same shower curtain Hermione had bought when the previous one had started going mouldy. It was pale pink with white elephants all over it, but most importantly it was currently moving.

The poor little fox had got itself tangled in the curtain and was scratching at the side of the bath trying to extricate itself. It had been silent until Harry tried to prise away the curtain, then it promptly started screaming at him.

“Alright, alright! If you would just stop squirming, I could get you out!” Harry said to the moving crumple of stiff curtain. The screaming only got louder, and Harry wished he had brought his wand with him, even though taking his wand to the bathroom wasn’t exactly something he was in the habit of doing.

As the screaming reach unbearable levels, and Harry was sure his eardrums were bleeding, he managed to find a gap around the edge of the curtain. In its panic, the fox had wrapped most of the fabric around itself. Harry pulled the loose edge and the fox tumbled around until it righted itself and glared at Harry. He would have been worried, knowing the ferocity of an angry fox, but with one ear up and one ear down where it had taken a tumble, Harry could only think how cute it was.

With an absent wave of his hand, Harry righted the scattered bottles and fixed Hermione’s foundation, although it was unlikely she’d be back to claim it anytime soon. Then he turned his attention to the fox.

“Come on. There’s nothing for you in here.” Harry wasn’t known for his rational decision making so he scooped the fox up like it was a puppy and made to carry it to the kitchen. It started snapping its jaws at him and he was convinced as he walked down the hallway that he was going to have his arm bitten off. He refused to let go though, so he ran his finger very carefully between the fox’s ears. Immediately the fox was quiet. Both ears returned to their regular position and as if a switch had been flicked the fox settled in his arms.

Somewhere in the back of Harry’s mind, he knew that even now it would be impossible for him to part with this fox. He was more than convinced that it was magical; the way it seemed to understand him wasn’t just vulpine intelligence – he had witnessed the fox’s thought processes, watched it listen and react to Harry. It was wholly unperturbed by the magic in the flat, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

In his heart he knew the responsible thing would be to turn the fox over to the Ministry. It was impossible for him to know where it came from or what it was capable of, and he certainly didn’t have the skill to look after it.

But he also knew that the Ministry couldn’t always be trusted to do the right thing. It was also inundated with the extra workload that had built up during and after the war. How did he know the fox wouldn’t just be abandoned for more important things?

He didn’t know any charm that would alert him to the magical…properties? genetics? characteristics? He wasn’t quite sure what it was he was looking for. He would have to ask someone.

Harry decided to take a quick shower and dress before calling Luna, the one friend he knew would definitely know what he should do. Harry had to pass Ron’s bedroom to get to his own. He had the logistical privilege of the ensuite room, but all that really meant was that Ron got the full bathroom to himself since there was only two of them anyway. The door to Ron’s bedroom was still firmly shut; a sign Ron was still sleeping since he was incapable of closing a door behind him.

“Ron?” Harry called through the door. There was no sound even Harry firmly pressed his ear against the white-painted wood to listen. He knocked loudly for good measure but quite frankly he had more pressing issues than forcing Ron out of bed. It was the weekend after all.

Abandoning his efforts to rouse Ron, Harry walked through his own bedroom to his bathroom.

When he returned to the living room barefoot and with dripping wet hair, he found that the mess in the bathroom was only the beginning. He should have known better than to leave the fox unattended after the havoc it had wreaked in the bathroom. He found the Canons blanket clamped tightly in the jaws of the fox and in the process of being torn to shreds. Perhaps he should have tried harder to wake Ron – at least he would have come to the blanket’s defence.

“Stop that!” Harry exclaimed. He tried to wrestle the orange monstrosity away from the fox, but it snarled and hissed at him as if preparing to attack him too. “I know you understand me! Let. It. Go.” Harry pulled on the blanket but all that happened was that it ripped in half, leaving Harry with and end that said Chudley and the fox with the Canons end.

The fox stared at Harry with a raised eyebrow it didn’t even have. How was that even possible?

“Don’t look at me like that,” Harry snapped. “I’m not the one who doesn’t know how to behave.” The fox didn’t look the slightest bit chastened, so Harry stomped off to call Luna. As he was looking for his phone he was followed. Walking two feet behind him as he searched through drawers and cupboards, whining at him for attention, the fox looked rather sorry for itself, although Harry knew full well it was only sorry it got caught.

“Is this your apology for destroying my blanket? Or my bathroom?” He asked as he finally located the phone in his bedside table. The fox tilted its head up with an air of sophistication and looked at him with sharp grey eyes as if to say _you want an apology? I did you a favour_ _._ Harry was amused at how expressive it was, but also struck by its eyes – he could have sworn they were blue, but now they were very clearly a pale shade of grey, almost silver in fact. They seemed rather familiar, like the fox was looking at him not like it could _see_ him, but like it _knew_ him.

“Well, you might have thought it was a horrible blanket, but I quite liked it.” The fox gnashed its teeth once at him and Harry liked to think it was saying _you have terrible taste._ He almost laughed.

Harry rarely used his phone other than to play Snake, but Luna happened to be one of his friends who had also invested in a phone and it was much less hassle than the floo. Whilst the fox was distracted by the remnants of the blanket it destroyed, Harry dialled Luna’s number.

“Hello Harry! I do hope your kidneys are well. Did you know it’s a very important time to not be afraid to be who you really are, despite what is expected of you? It’s a waxing crescent today.” She spoke in a rush. Harry honestly had no idea what she was talking about, but he went with it as usual. Typically, it was his policy not to question Luna too much, for fear of getting answers to questions he didn’t really want to ask.

“My kidneys are fine thanks, Luna. I was actually wondering…” He explained his situation to Luna and asked if she knew what he could do with his fox. The fox who, in the few minutes he had been engaged with Luna, had abandoned the blanket and disappeared somewhere in the flat.

“Oh I love foxes! I have such interesting conversations with them. Please, come and say hello. The plants would love to see you.” As was often the case with Luna, Harry was utterly lost for words. He wanted to ask her how she knew the plants would love to see him, or if she had actual conversations with foxes like he did with snakes, or if she just talked to them as he had been just now. He had just started to ask her when she hung up on him mid-sentence. Whilst Luna adored muggle phones, she hadn’t really got the hang of them yet.

Well, having agreed to take the fox to Luna’s, Harry was now faced with the challenge of wrangling said fox in order to take it there.

Well over an hour later, Harry arrived with his silver bundle held tightly to his chest from fear that it would wriggle free and he would need another hour to catch it again. He was already exhausted from chasing it around the flat and trying hopelessly to reason with it. In the end he bribed it with peanuts.

As soon as he stepped over the threshold into Luna’s house, he felt relaxed. Stepping into her home was like walking into a tropical paradise because although Luna had begun training to be a magizoologist, her house was filled with plants to rival Neville’s obscure tastes. She never locked her door to anyone, so Harry was free to walk right through.

There were potted plants perched precariously on the top of bookshelves full of brightly coloured spines, their leaves trailing across the shelves like climbing frames. There were large, spiky plants in huge ceramic vases on the floor sticking out in all directions. Under the windows there were boxes of herbs and on the side tables there were vases of freshly cut flowers from the garden. Combined with a mishmash of patterned throws and cushions and the vague smell of vanilla, it felt more like home than Harry’s flat ever had.

“There you are!” Luna floated into the room wearing a long blue kaftan mottled with orange hues. Despite her summary aesthetic, there were small pumpkins with grinning faces dangling from her ears; a nod to the time of year.

“Here I am.” Harry replied with a smile. Luna came in very close and peered at the silver fluff snuggled in Harry’s arms. Alerted to a new environment, the fox’s head poked up, its ears pricked and nose twitching, and started assessing the room.

“Yes. He barged in here quite like he owned the place.” Came a drawling voice from behind a particularly thick patch of tangled vines and leaves. Harry startled and, stepping further into the room, realised that there had been another person there the whole time he had been observing the plants stood idly.

No longer sporting the abstract colours and loose silhouette of Luna’s wardrobe, Malfoy cut a severe figure. She was sitting sideways on an armchair, her tight, black jean-clad legs draped over one arm. Harry could see she wore very tall and thickly heeled black boots which made her thin legs look even longer, although her top half remained concealed. Over the wing of the armchair he could see she was holding a book one-handed, the pages propped open with her little finger and thumb. The text was tiny and dense, and Harry couldn’t make out any of the words from such a distance.

As he opened his mouth to speak, she turned the page and her position shifted slightly. The long sleeve of a thick cable-knit jumper appeared as she changed her grip on the book so that she held it with two hands. Harry was distracted by the tiny freckle he noticed on her right palm, just between her thumb and her index finger. He didn’t realise it was possible to have freckles on one’s palm.

He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Oh! I forgot to mention that Lyra is staying with me for a while. She’s having some renovations done but I’m sure you’d know all about that.” Luna said lightly. Harry didn’t have a clue about any renovations, and he was sure he would’ve been the last to know even if he did. It did at least explain why Malfoy had been wearing Luna-style clothes the night before. They had clearly been Luna's.

Luna took Harry’s bundled-up fox and he immediately missed the warmth. He wasn’t the only one. The fox began screaming again, turning its head wildly as Luna carried it away. Harry hoped it was looking for him. He glanced back at Malfoy who clearly wasn’t the slightest bit interested in Harry’s presence. He watched her turn another page, her long fingers hooking under each page and lifting so that she didn’t make a single sound. He wondered if she did that on purpose.

“Oh you’re not a happy bunny, are you?” Luna cooed at the fox like it was a baby. “Harry, you’d better come with, obviously you two are quite attached already.” Harry couldn’t speak for the fox, but he certainly was attached.

He weaved through the plants behind Luna although he was mainly following the sound of his fox. The crying made his heart hurt and he wanted to take the bundle back from Luna. It had been less than twelve hours and already the fox had him wrapped around its little…do foxes have fingers? Toes? Toe doesn’t really have the same ring.

Luna brought them to a room that was somewhere between a sitting room and a vet’s examination room. It was a large room painted pale green with a metal table in the middle. There were yet more plants lined up along the wide windowsill to Harry’s left, and the walls were covered with anatomical drawings, potions recipes, and complex want movements. There was a saggy old sofa in one corner with one arm ripped to shreds, and a few cushions and dog begs stacked beside it.

She placed the fox gently on the table and pulled off the blanket Harry had wrapped it in. It was impossible to get the fox to leave the flat unless Harry blocked most of its vision, otherwise it threw a fit and started spitting at him.

“He’s so beautiful!” Luna exclaimed as the fox stood up and looked around. It seemed very curious and a little nervous, but it located Harry and cocked its head to one side as if waiting for something.

“It’s a he?” It hadn’t even occurred to Harry, but he realised with a jolt that he had been referring to his fox as ‘it’, and he was probably quite offended. Like it- _he_ could read his mind, the fox turned and looked at him, narrowing _his_ eyes as if to say _at lease_ someone _here is switched on._

“I’m sorry, ok? I was more concerned for your wellbeing than knowing what junk you’ve got.” The fox opened its mouth wide, exposing its sharp white teeth, and whined. Harry was confused for a second until he realised it was laughing at him.

“Oh shut up!” He scolded affectionately.

“I just need to run a few spells over him, they should give me any magical signatures. There’s also a spell for revealing animagi, but I’m not sure if I want an escaped convict running around my home.” Harry’s heard skipped a beat. It wasn’t possible that she knew about Sirius. No one but Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew about his escape. Luna wasn’t even looking at Harry, she was babbling at the fox like he was a friend she’d known for years. Harry forced himself to relax.

It was all going smoothly until Luna pulled out her wand from some hidden pocket in her kaftan. The fox had patiently been listening to everything she said but as soon as he saw her wand, he scrabbled away from her, running out of room on the padding and slipping on the metal surface beneath.

He started gnashing his teeth at her the same way he had at Harry earlier. This time however, Harry could also see the tremble in his legs – his fox was afraid.

“Hey…” Harry approached cautiously; afraid he would lash out. “It’s ok, Luna is our friend. She doesn’t want to hurt you. Just like before, Harry carefully ran his index finger between the fox’s ears and down it’s back. The first time he did it, the gnashing stopped but the fox was still cowering at one side of the table. He tried it once more, secretly marvelling at how soft his fur was. It wasn’t every day Harry stroked a fox.

Harry’s heart melted when his careful petting had the fox butting his nose against Harry’s palm. Opening his hand, Harry was shocked when the fox rested his chin on his palm and hummed contentedly.

“You two have an amazing bond. How long has he been staying with you? You never said.” Luna took the opportunity while the fox was distracted by Harry to start spell casting. None of them were spells Harry had seen before, so he couldn’t follow what she was doing. Was it crazy that the fox was so attached to him when it had only been in the flat for one night? Harry was just as taken with him too, even though he didn’t want to admit that to anyone else.

Looking into the fox’s grey eyes filled Harry with a sense of purpose, of determination. Like him being in his life was important. There was no logical reason for this, Harry knew. The poor thing could still be someone else’s lost pet or secretly completely feral and dangerous. But when it looked up at Harry like that, with its large eyes and its chin in Harry’s palm, Harry knew he would die for his new companion.

There was a rather bright flash of light and the fox jumped high off the table. The screeching started up again and when it landed bad on the table nimbly.

“He’s definitely not an animagus!” Luna giggled. Both the fox and Harry were much less amused, and the fox leaped into Harry’s arms so fast he barely had time to catch him. Harry’s heart was almost fit to burst. He had never really had a pet before, except when Sirius was in his dog form, and he couldn’t believe how much he had missed.

While Luna continues casting spells Harry had never seen or heard of before, Harry paid close attention to the fox in his arms. It was hard to believe he was a wild fox, because his fur was incredibly soft and perfectly clean, and other than a mishap with Luna’s wand, he seemed perfectly content around humans.

“All done!” Luna announced happily. For Harry it was disappointing – he wanted an excuse to hold onto his fox forever. Reluctantly, he put him down on the table again, although he stuck close. “So, are you going to give him a name?”

“A name?” Harry’s heart was pounding. He couldn’t name his fox; he was already way too attached as it was. If she wanted him to name him…did that mean he could keep him? He was almost too scared to ask.

“Well you can’t exactly keep calling him ‘it’ can you?” Malfoy appeared behind him – presumably intrigued by the screeching – and Harry was sure he was about to faint. He had never looked at Malfoy twice during school, but now that they were free of the constraints of Hogwarts houses, she seemed like she was more…her. There was less of that chauvinistic air to her and more calmness. The same confidence, but more of the right kind than the misguided kind.

Harry tried very hard not to look at her. “Oh. Uhhh, I could just call him fox?”

“Fox? Seriously Potter, even you can do better than that.” Malfoy seemed impatient even though it didn’t have anything to do with her.

Harry watched her approach the fox. He seemed wary of her but didn’t try to run as he had before. He was hesitant, but Malfoy was patient. She held her hand out in front of him and waited. Patience is a virtue and so she was rewarded – he sniffed at her hand like a dog and seemed to approve of her, although he whined as if trying to actually speak to her.

“I have no idea what you’re trying to say to me,” she said. “But I’m going to assume it’s something about how honoured you are to meet me. You’re welcome.” Harry snorted and Malfoy glared at him, but the fox seemed very amused.

Malfoy turned to Harry abruptly. “I think you should call him Aspen.”

“Oh what a lovely idea, Lyra!”

It didn’t sound so lovely to Harry, he’d never heard of that name. “Aspen?”

“It’s a type of tree. They’re white like he is – people say they look like they’re covered in snow.”

Harry stood up straighter. “I’ve never heard of them.” He didn’t like that Malfoy seemed to think she was entitled to name _his_ fox.

“They’re not from these parts, a bit like him.”

“Since when do you know about trees?” Harry asked her.

“What does it matter? There are plenty of things you don’t know about me.” The fox started crying at them because he was no longer centre of attention. Harry automatically stroked between his ears and he quietened.

“I’m sure there are.” Harry replied slowly. There was an edge to the way Malfoy had said it, like she was laying down some unspoken challenge that Harry was supposed to recognise. Could it be that she _wanted_ Harry to know? There had definitely been a moment at the open mic that Harry couldn’t explain, but Malfoy didn’t seem to want to talk about it.

“Malfoy said he’s not from these parts. Where is he from?” Harry asked Luna. She positively lit up like Hermione did whenever she was asked about something she’d read about.

“It’s not impossible to find one here, but you’re more likely to see one in North America. He’s a snow glow fox. They’re born white and when they grow, they develop sandy brown or grey legs and tails depending on their breeding. They’re my most favouritest foxes. Especially the ones as handsome as you!” The fox preened at her praise; his ears flattened against his head so she could stroke him gently. Harry was almost jealous.

It was completely irrational, but Harry wanted the fox’s attention back. “What do you think of Aspen?” He asked him. They waited while he stood on the table and pondered Harry’s question. After a little while, he sat down and looked right at Harry, although he wasn’t sure what the fox wanted from him.

“He doesn’t look so sure.” Harry worried. It wasn’t as though he could think of a better name. Naming things wasn’t exact his forte.

“Just give him a minute. He’s a fox, he doesn’t understand you.” Malfoy hissed in Harry’s ear. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Like she knew anything.

“Yes he does, he’s a magical fox!”

“Actually, Harry…” Luna began but was cut off by Malfoy.

“Potter, there’s about as much magic in this creature as there is in that odious mobile phone you use.” The fox took that moment to yip and them in approval, getting up and trotting around in a circle like he was feeling out his new name.

“SEE!” Harry yelled in Malfoy’s face, even though he was clearly wrong.

And as glad as Harry was that he wouldn’t be needing to call the Ministry anytime soon, he couldn’t help but feel that wasn’t the answer he was looking for.


	5. Chapter 5

Wednesday 24th February 1999

_Two days_ Draco was kept in that holding cell. _Two days_ before he got his call. It was completely illegal considering they hadn’t actually charged him with anything, but as an ex Death Eater it would hardly make any difference even if he did complain. Which he couldn’t do from a holding cell anyway.

Draco was exhausted. The only thing to do in his cell was sleep – if he didn’t want to think about Potter – but he hadn’t realised that sleeping too long would only make him more tired than he was when he started. He’d missed his chances to eat, having been conveniently asleep any time food had been put in his cell; the food congealed and inedible by the time he woke up, assuming it was ever edible in the first place. The detached resignation he had arrived with had bled away as his hunger crept in, and he was in a full-blown rage by the time his first visitor arrived – who wasn’t who he expected at all.

“Granger.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slap you again.” His anger flared.

“Excuse me? I didn’t ask you to come here. In fact, you’re taking up valuable time I could be spending talking to someone who might actually help me.” Granger didn’t even have the gall to look ashamed of herself.

They were sat in a small interview room with a pathetic excuse for a window of charmed daylight, the first Draco had seen in days. It was actually giving him a headache, but he said nothing. The interview room was one of the most boring rooms he’d ever sat in, and probably for good reason. The entire room was varying shades of grey; grey walls, grey floors, grey table, grey chairs. He imagined this would be the place creativity went to die.

Granger had files scattered across her side of the table, each covered in leather wallets embossed with the logo of the law firm she worked for. They’d sat in awkward silence for the first fifteen minutes and he was yet to figure out what she was doing here. The files had remained closed the whole time.

He tried to speak again but his throat was dry, and he ended up having a coughing fit. Granger handed him a glass of water, pouring steadily from the jug they had been provided with. Draco was impressed by how calm she seemed.

“Thank you.”

“I don’t want you dying on my watch.”

“Then you have a reason not to slap me again.”

“I see you’re as dramatic as ever.”

They lapsed into silence again. After a couple of minutes, it was clear Granger could no longer withstand the quiet, so she flipped open the file closest to her. On top of it was a photo of him he’d never seen before and didn’t remember having taken.

She turned the top page over to reveal a page full of snippets of transcripts with long sections redacted. “They have nothing on you, you know.”

“Is that what you’re here for?” His heart started thumping in his chest. There was no way Hermione Granger had come here specifically to help him.

“Look, let me make this perfectly clear.” She leant forwards, resting her elbows over the file she’d opened and looking him straight in the eyes. “I don’t like you. You’re intolerant and you’re a bully and you’ve said unforgivable things to me in the past.” He squirmed uncomfortably in his hard chair. “But if I, someone who has no concern for your wellbeing, can see that’s something’s wrong here, then something is definitely wrong.”

Draco swallowed hard. She was really quite menacing when she wanted to be. “If you have no concern for my wellbeing, why does it even matter?”

Granger stared at him like he was an idiot. “Because next time it might be someone who doesn’t deserve it.” She seemed taken aback by her own harshness, but it was true. He would be lying if that didn’t sting a bit, but he sort of did deserve it.

Whilst Draco was surprised that Granger had showed up and not one of his few friends, in a way he wasn’t surprised she had taken an interest. Although she claimed not the care about him, she was also Potter’s best friend. As the star legal associate at the best wizarding law firm in the country, she was probably the only friend of Potter’s who had a chance of getting somewhere.

Draco couldn’t exactly afford to piss her off.

She let him drink a full glass of water before she tried to speak to him again. Draco had time to observe that although she was well put together wearing tailored robes trimmed with the brilliant red colour of the firm, her hair was even more frizzy than usual, and her cheeks were flushed.

By comparison, Draco was a mess. He was still wearing the clothes he had been wearing when he was removed from his home. The thin soles of his leather shoes had done nothing to keep his feet warm, although he was rather amused that he had been wearing muggle shirt and trousers to be paraded through the Ministry. That would certainly give people something to talk about. No doubt his hair was a mess and he smelled, although he could hardly bring himself to care.

“It’s not ideal that you were seen arguing with Harry,” she continued. “But there is no evidence to suggest any foul play. I’ve found witnesses who say they saw you and Harry leaving separately, and on _relatively_ good terms, and Ron and I spent that evening with him and other than being a bit quiet, he seemed fine. There are no new developments on his whereabouts, and no sightings of him since 17th September last year.” Granger’s voice became strained and Draco could see how hard she was trying to keep it together.

“It’s ok to be worried, Granger. I miss him too.” Draco snapped his mouth shut and regretted his words immediately when Granger stared at him like he was crazy. He had no idea what possessed him to say it; he had never ever been susceptible to empathy.

Granger looked as if she was going to say something sentimental but a glare from him had her changing directions.

“Tell me what you know.” Her tone was steady, but her accent was clipped.

“Are you really here to help me or do you just want to make sure I’m miserable?” She pursed her lips.

“You know you’re really not helping yourself here.” When he said nothing, she sighed and continued. “Pansy sent me. She’s been going spare you know, but they wouldn’t let anyone in to see you.” Draco’s blood ran cold. He knew the chances of him getting fair treatment were slim, but if this was how the Ministry were going to play it now, things could only get worse later.

Draco looked down at the chipped surface of the interview table that sat between them. There were no audio charms set up as there had been the last time Draco had been in one of these rooms, but he wasn’t any less nervous. He wiped his palms against his trousers and then cringed at his own behaviour. He was practically feral already.

Granger was clearly uncomfortable with his silence. “She called every lawyer in the city but none of them were prepared to help.”

“And you are?”

“Less inclined by the minute.” Her elbows remained on the table and she propped her chin up with her hands. It was a surprisingly informal posture. “There’s nothing formal about this chat, Draco. Just tell me what you know, and we’ll go from there.” Draco’s irritation flared.

“Don’t call me that.” He snapped.

“Please don’t make this difficult.” She sighed. He didn’t want to make anything difficult, not really, but he’d been quietly seething in isolation for days and he was using every inch of control to remain civil.

“Then tell me what you want.”

“I want my friend back!” She burst out. “Don’t you dare sit there keeping information from me! Do you have any idea how agonising it has been? Not a word from him since September – no messages, no calls, no idea if he’s even still alive. And here you’ve been, sitting on information that could be the difference between life and death. You’re a disgrace!”

Draco could feel a snarl rising in him like a caged animal. “You think I don’t know that?” He spat. “I was a disgrace years ago. Don’t fling that at me like it’s something new. Can you imagine what it would have looked like? A Malfoy the last person to see Saint Harry Potter before he disappeared. They’d have thrown me in Azkaban in an instant.”

“Can’t you see?! They’re going to do that anyway! All you did was buy yourself more time whilst he could be out there somewhere needing our help! And for what? You’ve been stuck in that _horrid_ place anyway.” Granger shivered, no doubt remembering the time she spent in the manor with his aunt, but even her disgust only masked her anger for a second.

He couldn’t expect her to understand. In the time this had dragged out, he himself had lost sight of his original reasons for keeping quiet. The excuses he gave himself about giving Potter a chance to go somewhere better were thin at best. Potter could have been dead all this time.

And his blood would be on Draco’s hands.

The truth was that Draco was being a coward. In his heart he had known that from the beginning. But what good would it really have done if he had told someone right away? Only an idiot would go through the Veil after Potter, not knowing if they could get back either. It was impossible to know either way whether Potter had chosen not to come back or couldn’t.

“I don’t know where he is.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. He didn’t have a clue what was beyond the Veil or if Potter had even got that far at all.

Granger took a deep breath and looked Draco directly in the eyes. “But you know _something_.”

This was the end of the road for him anyway, he may as well tell someone with a vested interest in finding out what he knew. If she really was here at Pansy’s behest, maybe she would help him. He began to explain what had happened at the Leaky. Paraphrasing what Potter had told him for fear of saying more than he should.

The more Draco said, the more worried Granger looked. At first, she remained impassive as he told her about being reunited with his wand and the way people had stared, but as soon as Draco brought up Cousin Sirius, she started biting her lip and her brows furrowed. This was where Draco was in the dark. He knew relatively little about Potter’s relationship with Sirius Black, other than knowing he had been Potter’s godfather. It seemed it was a familiar topic to Granger though, although she seemed relatively surprised that it was something Draco had heard about.

And when he got to the part about the Veil, her face resembled _The_ _Scream._

“Oh no. Please tell me he didn’t. Even he’s not that stupid.” Draco was worried Granger might cry. He didn’t really do crying.

“I don’t know if he did. All I’m saying is that was something he mentioned. He didn’t exactly give me his day by day schedule.” She had started pacing the room at some point during his account. If relating what he knew to her hadn’t drained him enough, her pacing surely would.

“And you just let him?” She was angry again. He was starting to think short fuses were another unseemly Gryffindor trait. “At no point did it occur to you to say ‘ _maybe that’s a bad idea, Harry. Maybe you should think about what you might leave behind. Maybe you should GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ARSE AND SMELL THE DAMN ROSES.’_ No, I don’t suppose it did.”

If Draco had had the strength, he might have pointed out that she didn’t mean it, that she would never have said anything like that herself, and that being angry at him wouldn’t help matters. He might even have said that he did indeed say that to Potter, in part, and that he did at least ask him to think about it, to consider the consequences.

But he also knew that even if he had the energy, she wouldn’t want to hear it.

“What do you want me to say? I don’t know.” He said firmly. Granger looked at him with a piercing stare until she decided she was satisfied he was telling the truth. She returned to her seat and scrubbed her hands over her face in frustration and it left her looking even more tired than she had when she arrived.

“It’s all circumstantial right now,” she began. “There’s no evidence from your meeting with Harry that you had any intention to harm him, which is good, but-” Of course there had to be a but. “It is suspicious that you happened to see him. It could easily be construed as a planned event, like you wanted to be seen getting along with him to divert attention, why would you suddenly want to see him anyway? And right before he…left.”

“Divert attention? How exactly could that be seen as diverting anything? Everyone knows Potter and I hate each other, why on earth would I go out of my way to see him for the first time in _months_ when staying well away from him would keep my name out of this?” He was getting agitated. “Besides, I didn’t ask to see him, _he_ asked to see _me._ ”

That only seemed to upset her further. “You can’t expect the Wizengamot to be reasonable with you.” She held up a hand to silence him when he opened his mouth to interrupt. “No, I’m not saying this will go that far, all I’m saying is that if it _did_ , you have to be prepared that they won’t be fair. The Ministry’s reputation has taken a serious knock and allowing a former Death Eater to walk free when there’s even the slightest suggestion of involvement will reflect badly on them.”

“Granger, I’m tired. Can we please wrap this up?” It was testament to his current state that in his fatigue he was still managing to be somewhat polite to her. She frowned at him and he wanted to glare back at her, but he hadn’t the spirit for it.

“I think you’ve told me what you can. I can’t say I’m grateful since you should have told me this _months_ ago.” If Draco had a wand, he would have hexed her right there and then. But he didn’t. So, he imagined it instead. Whilst that time he made her teeth grow in school was hilarious, now he’d go for something a little more mature – like an instant scalping hex or maybe even _Anteoculatia;_ he couldn’t decide if a bald head or a horn would suit her best. Both would be good.

“Well I’m telling you now,” he says while still picturing her without her signature frizz. “Now if you’re quite done disrupting my peace and quiet…”

Granger looked ready to spit venom but managed to hold her tongue.

“Next time we see each other I expect you to be more courteous.” She returned to that snotty, perfectionist sort of tone she’d had throughout school. “Believe it or not I’m trying to help both of us, and you’d better count your lucky stars I let Pansy talk me into it.” And with that she turned on her heel and marched out of the room with her nose in the air and her files clutched to her chest like schoolbooks.

Draco didn’t like the idea of there being a next time.

He caught her just before she disappeared. “Oh, Granger.” She turned. “Next time your girlfriend tries to send me a gift, tell her I prefer chocolate.” Granger tried to scowl at him but couldn’t quite mask her smile.

“Tell her yourself.” And then she was gone.

Draco sat back in his chair with a frown on his face. That had been one hell of a whirlwind, so much so that he couldn’t decide if Granger was on his side or just trying to goad him. His head hurt from all the thinking he’d just done and weirdly enough he was quite ready to go back to his cell and sleep some more.

He got his wish when Ponytail appeared in the doorway Granger had just left. Ponytail hadn’t appeared since dumping Draco in his cell, or at least Draco hadn’t seen him. He had been sleeping so much of the time it was likely he’d missed a lot.

Except Ponytail didn’t take him back to his cell. Instead, he led him back through the corridors that all look the same, back into a part of the Ministry with charmed windows. Draco tried asking what was happening, unwilling to believe that he might actually be allowed to go home, but he got no answers. He wasn’t cuffed again, but nor was he greeted with smiles or apologies when he was taken to a large desk similar to the one he had seen when he arrived.

“Your lawyer has paid your bail Mr Malfoy.” A gruff old man informed him. He didn’t expand on his statement and Draco didn’t ask.

As if in a blur there were forms signed and dates stamped. All the while Ponytail stood next to Draco, keeping a tight grip on his upper arm as if it was necessary to hold him in place when he was about to walk right out of there. He could hardly believe it. It seemed so surreal after two days of solitary confinement and no daylight, so he kept his mouth tightly shut until he was certain it was safe to speak.

He was abandoned in the main entrance to Level 2, in his now smelly clothes looking like a homeless person. If he’d thought the staring was bad when he’d arrived, it wasn’t a patch on leaving. He kept his head down as much as possible and blocked out the jeering and the sniggers and he went to the central floo system to go home.

He stumbled out of the floo in the Manor drawing room, feeling rather lightheaded, when he collided with something solid and smelling strongly of vanilla.

“Draco!” Pansy flung her arms around him, despite the state he was in, despite how terrible he looked, how bad he smelled. Even a year ago his relationship with Pansy was such that she wouldn’t have dared approach him like that, but he could feel tears welling in his eyes as he buried his face in her sleek hair.

“Oh I was so worried!” It was then that he realised they weren’t alone. Behind Pansy stood Blaise, Theo, Millie, and Greg. He never thought the six of them would ever be in the same place at the same time ever again, but there they were.

“Obviously everyone is comfortable enough in my home to drop in unannounced,” he gave Pansy the side eye, “but if you don’t mind, the first thing I want to do is shower.” No one tried to argue with him, so he walked right past them and up to the West Wing where his rooms were. After even a couple of days in a cell at the Ministry, the landings of the Manor felt miles long. It was good to stretch his legs.

He took his time in the shower, allowing the hot water to warm his bones. He had never been more grateful for shampoo in his life. His was mixed especially for him after a ridiculously expensive consultation with a fancy London stylist. Looking at the minimalist bottle now, it felt frivolous and stupid.

It was impossible for his thoughts not to stray to Potter. Granger hadn’t sugar coated anything when she’d told him that he should expect to be mistreated. He had expected that, which is why he’d kept his mouth shut all those months.

Except now when he thought about it, actually allowed himself to delve into the depths of his feelings on the subject, he realised he’d been protecting himself the whole time. It was nothing to do with allowing Potter to start over or to save himself going to Azkaban when he’d done nothing wrong, it was because he didn’t want to admit how much Potter’s absence had left a hole.

It was fine not seeing Potter throughout his house arrest. Even not seeing him, he’d still known that he was out there somewhere, probably not thinking about Draco at all. It was different knowing that Potter might not be anywhere at all. He could have even just ceased to exist. But now, knowing that even if he wanted to he couldn’t see Potter’s stupid scar and ridiculous hair, it feels different. He might ever see Potter again, and that would mean that he would never get to tell him that against all his better judgements he-

A pain lanced through Draco’s heart as if he had been stabbed. He winced and rubbed at his chest as if he could alleviate it. What was that about? Maybe it was karma, if he believed in such things.

He had been scrubbing at his skin for too long, even though he still felt dirty, and he was red raw from head to toe. Reluctantly, he dragged himself out of the shower and dressed in the first clothes he could lay his hands on which were mercifully wizarding and an appropriate shade of navy.

When he returned to the drawing room his friends weren’t there, but he quickly found them in the sitting room across the hall that was much smaller and cosier. They had ordered tea from the house elves and were sitting in an almost perfect circle waiting for him. It was strange seeing them all together, and even stranger having so many people in the Manor at once. If his mother were here, she’d have been ecstatic.

They turned to look at him as he entered and helped himself to a cup of tea, still piping hot. He felt a wave of nerves take over him when Blaise snorted.

“What?” He snapped.

Blaise gave him a look. He was lounging on the chaise longue with his ridiculously shiny shoes and Italian fitted robes like he owned the place. “You might want to do something with…” He waved his hand lazily in the direction of Draco’s head. He froze.

“I was going to,” he lied, and silently prayed to every god he could think of when Pansy handed him his wand and he cast a quick drying charm on his hair. Never before had he forgotten to do his hair, he hadn’t so much as walked from the bathroom to his bed in the dorms without at least drying it first. Stupid Potter.

He took a seat between Millicent, who had brought her cat with her for who knew what reason, and Pansy, who was looking at him like he was a terminal dragon pox patient.

“Ok, what’s going on?” He asked the sorry group.

“We heard what happened and we wanted to know what we can do to help.”

Draco stared dumbfoundedly at Blaise. “Why would you want to help me?”

“We’re your friends!” Greg said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. For a moment Draco forgot how bone weary he was, how drained and sick he felt. There were people in the world who did believe in him, even before they knew anything, and he hadn’t even given them the opportunity to step up for him.

“What has Granger told you?”

Pansy began to explain how she had approached everyone she could think of who could help. As Granger had told him, all the lawyers of old who weren’t locked up themselves for helping his father and his friends still refused to help him. It was Granger who tore after her when leaving the offices of Bloom and Grove to offer her services.

Despite how serious the situation was, Draco had to try very hard not to laugh at the way Pansy told her story. For some reason completely unfathomable to Draco, she refused to admit to any of her friends besides him that she was in a relationship with Granger. It had boggled Draco’s mind when she’d first told him, but she was also happier than she’d been in a long time. The most confusing part to Draco was that Granger could so easily forgive Pansy while still hating him. Although, if she really was going to help him, maybe she didn’t hate him as much as he thought…


	6. Chapter 6

Tuesday 19th October 1999

Adjusting to life with a fox was much harder than Harry had anticipated. Although he regularly checked in with Luna, who was doing an amazing job of teaching Harry how to look after Aspen and making sure he was healthy, there was only so much she could do.

For the first week and a half the fox was nocturnal, waking Harry up in the middle of the night as he hunted through the apartment. Thankfully, Aspen’s body clock began to adjust to domesticated living, and he eventually synced with Harry. Sort of.

Harry was still woken up regularly at five in the morning by Aspen pouncing on top of him, trying to dig through the duvet and screaming with what Harry presumed was excitement.

“Bloody hell, Harry. Can’t you shut him up with something? Silencing spell? Literally anything!” Ron grumbled every morning at the breakfast table. Harry wasn’t much of a morning person, but Ron was even less so.

“He’s a fox Ron, I can’t undo his natural instincts,” he mumbled, even though he had been wondering the same thing himself.

Harry only saw Ron first thing in the morning. He was noticeably absent in the evenings and never appeared during the weekend. It was strange that it never occurred to Harry to ask him what he was up to until after Ron had already left for work; doing a job Harry couldn’t remember and felt too embarrassed to ask. If it weren’t for Aspen keeping him very busy, Harry probably would have been suspicious.

Today was a Tuesday. Tuesdays were Luna’s days off – she did her magizoology training on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, although she studied round the clock. A few days after Harry had first been to see her, Luna had noticed something odd about Aspen’s behaviour. Although foxes are highly strung animals, Aspen seemed more prone to anxiety than he should be. It was difficult for her to find out the reason for this since they had no way of knowing whether it was normal for Aspen or not.

Aspen would randomly start pacing around a room, screaming at walls and doors like he was crying; he’d start shaking and biting anyone who came too close. At first, it only happened while at Luna’s and Harry presumed that he didn’t like being moved about, but then it started happening at home too.

Luna had suggested some kind of oil to give to the fox to help ease this anxiety. A couple of drops in his food once a day and his mood swings should be easier to control. Already very protective of Aspen, Harry really didn’t want to start giving him medication, it didn’t seem right to be messing with nature like that. At first, he had tried to persevere, but these episodes were getting more frequent, so he decided to get a second opinion.

“Well, figure something out, would you?” Ron dumped his cereal bowl in the sink. “The sooner the better,” he added, walking out the front door and letting it slam shut behind him and shaking the whole flat. Harry frowned at the hallway. Ron was often grumpy in the morning but never quite that brusque.

“I’m taking you to meet a very special friend today,” Harry said to Aspen. He had developed a habit of talking to the fox like a human. Malfoy mocked him for it, especially since Luna claimed he was a non-magical fox, but Harry still firmly believed he understood everything Harry said.

Luna had also helped Harry research what to feed Aspen. It was straight forward as a general rule – he could feed him fruit and vegetables which he had in the flat for himself anyway. The most disgusting part for Harry was some of the insects and raw foods Luna recommended. The idea of feeding a cute and fluffy fox crickets and whole rabbits made Harry’s stomach turn, but he was trying.

Aspen had been crunching very loudly on sugar snap peas, which were his favourite, but he stopped chewing when Harry mentioned a friend. He was quite a social fox, they had discovered, even though that was highly unusual, and Harry had seen more of his friends in the past month than ever before.

Although Aspen loved meeting new people, he was very anxious whenever Harry took him somewhere new. Whilst the easiest solution to this would have been to have everyone come to them, Harry and Ron’s flat was far too small for a fox, and it was very important that Aspen got to explore outside and dig for things until his heart’s content. So, Aspen often ran free in Luna’s shielded garden and although he had destroyed a couple of hydrangeas and one unfortunate rhubarb plant, it was going really well.

But today Harry was taking him to Grimmauld Place. Harry couldn’t pinpoint why he was so nervous about their visit; there was every reason for him to visit his godfather, and he was sure Sirius would be happy to help him, but there was still a niggle of guilt in him that he didn’t understand. Perhaps he had forgotten Sirius’ birthday? No, that wasn’t until next month.

Stilled puzzled, Harry grabbed his denim jacket from the hooks by the door and slipped an extra packet of sugar snaps into his inside pocket. He’d discovered the easiest way to travel with Aspen was to hold onto him. Being a fox, he didn’t like that very much, so Harry hid his favourite snack inside his jacket and allowed Aspen to ‘dig’ for it. It was genius if he said so himself.

“Come on,” he cooed at his fox, who definitely enjoyed being pandered to. He scooped him up in his arms ready to go when Aspen had one of his funny turns. Except this was worse than any that had come before. He thrashed in Harry’s arms and whipped him ferociously with his tail.

“Easy, easy. You’re ok. It’ll only be for a few minutes and then you can go and hunt some nice rabbits, can you do that?”

Aspen bit him rather hard. Harry yelped but refused to let go of the fox. He marched resolutely through the front door and turned left down the street. He and Ron lived quite close to Grimmauld Place, so it was easier for him to walk with Aspen than to distress him further with magical travel.

His arm throbbed where Aspen had bitten him. He didn’t think he had drawn blood, but that didn’t make much difference to the pain level. Belatedly, he realised he hadn’t cast the regular disillusionment charm. Although it was perfectly legal to keep a domesticated fox, he guessed most people wouldn’t be accustomed to him carrying one around the streets of London. It was difficult, but he managed to grip Aspen with one arm just long enough to discreetly slip his wand out and cast the charm.

The movement of his arm alerted Aspen to the sugar snaps in his jacket. Much to Harry’s relief, he busied himself trying to get at them for the rest of their relatively short walk. It was a very mild day for October, but he still would have been freezing cold in his denim jacket if it hadn’t been for Aspen’s fur keeping him warm. For the first time it occurred to Harry that foxes were often bred for their fur, and Aspen could have been one of those foxes. The thought made him shiver, independently of the chill, and he felt guity for enjoying the warmth of the small body held against his own. The world could be a cruel place.

They walked together to Grimmauld Place on autopilot. It assuaged a little of Harry’s guilt knowing that it couldn’t have been too long since he last saw Sirius if he still knew the way like the back of his hand.

His bite wound throbbed as he wrestled against Aspen’s fervent digging into his pocket while they waited for the house to appear. Harry knocked on the door even though he would usually walk right in, only just thinking about the fact that he hadn’t even told Sirius they were coming.

The door swung open slowly and cautiously, his godfather’s thin face appearing as if readying for attack. He paused when he saw Harry standing there – the colour drained from his cheeks making him look gaunt and ghost-like.

“Harry?” Sirius rasped. It sounded like he hadn’t used his voice for a long time. Perhaps he hadn’t.

“Yeah,” Harry affirmed, trying to arrange his face in a sheepish but encouraging smile. For a split second he thought Sirius might shut the door in his face but at the last second Sirius pulled Harry into the house and into a strong embrace. Stepping over the threshold was like stepping back in time. A wave of emotion passed through Harry and he felt the itch of tears pricking in his eyes. It was like his heart had been cracked open and he gripped Sirius tightly, temporarily forgetting about Aspen and letting go of him.

Harry didn’t understand why he felt so raw visiting Sirius. His godfather looked the same as ever; still on the pale side, a little underweight, but otherwise a world of difference from his ragged appearance when he had been locked up. His long black hair even returning to the shiny curtain Harry remembered from old photographs he’d seen.

“Is everything ok?” Harry asked Sirius’ shoulder when his godfather didn’t let him go.

Sirius cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. It’s nice to see you. What brings you here?” His words seemed disjointed and too polite.

Harry paused to look for any signs something was amiss, but his godfather’s expression was carefully neutral. “I could do with your help actually,” Harry said, pointing down the hallways where Aspen had run off to explore the house.

Sirius looked a bit bemused. “Oh?” It was then that Harry realised he hadn’t lifted the disillusionment charm yet. He pulled his wand out and aimed it at Aspen with great difficulty, as he was zigzagging down the hallway at great speed. While he had his wand out, he pulled his sleeve up and inspected the bite Aspen had given him. It hurt but he was right that it hadn’t drawn blood, so he put his wand away and made a mental note to find some salve later.

Harry explained to him how the fox had shown up at his and Ron’s flat, how he had been learning how to take care of him with Luna’s help, how it had been weeks now and no one had shown up to claim him. They went into the kitchen and Sirius made them tea, all the while listening attentively to what Harry had to say.

As Harry spoke, he couldn’t help but notice a slight tremor in Sirius’ hands. It added to his feeling that something was off. He had already checked that he hadn’t forgotten Sirius’ birthday, but that was definitely November.

It was a fairly ordinary thing to do – to sit in the kitchen and talk over tea – so why did it feel like Harry was forgetting something very important? As they sat down at the kitchen table, Aspen kept very close to Harry, sitting quietly by his feet, which was very unusual. He even let Harry run his fingers gently between his ears, something Aspen loved but was very particular about.

“What exactly is it that you think I can help you with, Harry? I will, as long as it’s in my power, you know that.” Sirius had nearly finished his tea by the time that Harry had finished talking. It was still too hot for Harry though, so his sat full on the table in front of him, slowly warming his hands.

“Well uh, I thought maybe you could use your dog instinct to-” This is where Harry’s plan fell short. He thought animal to animal, or maybe animagus to animagus, interaction would be more reliable than Luna. Not that he didn’t trust Luna, of course he did, but he could trust Sirius with his life. He was family.

Sirius sat patiently and waited for Harry to figure out what it was that he wanted. He had always known what Harry needed, even though he had been missing for so many years of Harry’s life.

“I don’t know. Luna told me he isn’t a magic fox, but I just don’t believe her. You know when you just have this _feeling_? I-”

“It’s ok, Harry. I know exactly what you mean. I could try to introduce myself to him? Foxes can act similarly to dogs when they’re very young. But I mean _very_ young.” Sirius suggested. Harry nodded and tried to coax Aspen out from under the table, but it proved difficult. He was shaking all over again and whining loudly whenever Harry tried to manoeuvre him.

Harry could see that Sirius was dubious, and sure enough, just as Harry was winning against Aspen, “I’m not sure about this. If he’s just a little too old…once they start to mature…foxes and dogs famously don’t get along…”

“Sirius, please,” he begged, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” Harry had no idea why it mattered to him so much except that there had to be a reason _this_ fox came to _his_ flat. Not any other fox or any other flat. Things like that didn’t just _happen_.

Sirius huffed but put up no further argument and walked out of the kitchen to transform. Harry never tired of seeing his godfather become that shaggy black dog, and he briefly wondered why he had never tried to become an animagus himself, however there were more pressing matters.

Harry was still a little chilled, so he hadn’t removed his jacket. He took the packet of sugar snaps out and distracted Aspen with them while Sirius tried to gently introduce himself. Aspen was thrashing about, screaming and scratching. It was clear that this had been a terrible idea, but Harry had come this far, and it seemed stupid not to go through with it now. Although Aspen was also in distress and Harry cared about this little fox quite a lot.

Even the sugar snaps weren’t a distraction for long. Aspen loudly chewed his way through one and a half before he sensed Sirius approaching, at which point he snarled and launched himself across the room.

The fox faced the dog and bared his teeth. It was the first time Harry had truly seen Aspen behave like a wild animal and it was rather a shock. It had been easy to see him only as a pet in the few weeks he had been in Harry’s care. They shared a bond now that meant they trusted each other, but Harry could see that Aspen would not accept a dog just because Harry did.

The two animals circled each other. Each time Sirius came in closer Aspen gnashed his teeth in warning. Harry tried to let it play out, but he could tell that Aspen was only being aggravated and, in the end, he had to quite literally risk life and limb to separate them again.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I tried.” Sirius said to him a few minutes later when he had returned to human form. Harry had successfully calmed Aspen down and was holding him lightly in his lap.

“Was it any use at all?” Harry asked him helplessly.

“It was useful that it brought you to me.” Harry sighed. Why was he the only person who seemed to think something wasn’t right? “Don’t feel bad about it, Harry, it’s important to trust your instincts. If you say something is special about the fox, then I believe you.” Harry nodded, feeling choked that he had someone like Sirius in his life. Aspen, although calm, was now wary of Sirius, so Harry got up and let him out into the garden, hoping he didn’t run off and get lost.

“You’re right. I’m sorry I haven’t seen you in a while. It’s been so busy with him landing on the doorstep,” Harry explained.

“Stay for dinner and forget about the fox for a while. Tell me about what else is going on in your life. I hear you’re spending more time with Luna and Lyra?”

“How did you know that?”

“Lyra is my cousin, Harry. She’s actually been making quite the effort to see me.” Harry immediately felt terrible for neglecting the only family he had left. What must Sirius think of him? He instantly agreed to stay for dinner, even though he would have accepted the invitation even if he hadn’t been guilted into it by fucking Malfoy.

Over dinner of a rich lamb casserole that wasn’t really to Harry’s taste but appealed very much to Sirius’ canine appetites, Sirius told him that Malfoy talked about Harry a lot the last time she came to visit. Harry thought that was strange because whenever he went to Luna’s, Malfoy skulked around in the background and played games with Aspen rather than speak to him. To hear Sirius tell it, it sounded like he and Malfoy had become best friends over the past month. Maybe he should have made a better effort to get along with her, although he was still utterly tongue-tied whenever she entered the room which made it infinitely difficult.

After dinner, Harry’s concerns over Sirius’ loneliness flooded back. Although he was technically no longer a criminal. Everyone who was around when Pettigrew was supposed to have been murdered had since died themselves. All but Remus who was less trusted than Sirius because of being a werewolf. Without Dumbledore to vouch for him, Sirius was still stuck in hiding until they found a way to overturn his conviction. Most people seem to think he was killed in the war anyway.

“Sirius,” Harry began cautiously after he had cleared their plates, “were you and Remus ever…”

Sirius gave him a sad smile. “Yes, at one time. It was very hard for him, all those years I was in Azkaban. I think he found it difficult to understand how the boy he knew could have done such a terrible thing. I don’t blame him really.”

“But he waited for you, didn’t he? What happened?”

“Even the most patient man grows tired of waiting, Harry. I wasn’t ready to go back to that when I was released. You remember how I was back then – very nearly mad. I just wanted to have my freedom back.”

Harry thought back to the last time he saw Remus, but the memory was too foggy for him to see it clearly. “I think he still loves you, you know.” Sirius cleared his throat awkwardly.

“You mustn’t talk like that Harry, let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You look like you could use a nap.” Sirius threw his head back and barked out a laugh, shoving Harry’s shoulder playfully. His entire faced changed when he laughed like that; he seemed younger, more alive, more like that teenager Harry had seen in Snape’s memories. He would have liked to have known Sirius back then, but he was immensely grateful he was getting to know him now.

“You are so your father’s son, Harry.”

When he left Grimmauld later that evening, Aspen still asleep in his arms, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He knew in his bones there was something about this fox and for some reason no one else could see it. He was also, however, determined to do something nice for Sirius. Now that he thought about it, it wasn’t fair for him to rattle around in that old house on his own. There must be centuries of negative energy and dark magic bleeding through the walls. But what could he do?

Sleep came easily to him that night, although the sleep itself was disjointed. Since the horcrux inside him had been destroyed, he had been mercifully free of nightmares and he no longer dreaded going to sleep at night. This night however, he had the strangest dream.

_There was a forest of pine. It was pitch black, but he could tell by the fresh smell of the earth mixed with the sweetness of tree sap. It was summer and a light breeze ruffled his hair, but it did not chill him. There were no sounds except the occasional hoot of an owl. The sky was perfectly clear and when he looked up, he saw the stars glimmering in the sky like diamonds. Although it was a beautiful night, he felt restless. His legs were itching to move on, he was late. Late for what? He didn’t know._

_He walked westward. He was barefoot and he expected to cut his feet on fallen branches and rock, but the ground was soft and mossy. It squished between his toes and made him uncomfortable. There was no clear path because the forest was dense with trees climbing high into the night sky, but they seemed to part for him. A flash of silver appeared ahead, and he paused, wary. It was eerily silent._

_He continued walking for a while. It was impossible to track how long he had been walking or how far he had gone. He found it didn’t matter – he wasn’t tiring, and he wasn’t getting bored. It became clear that the trees were getting closer together and his field of vision was becoming shorter and shorter. It didn’t create the panic that he thought it would. Instead he was overcome with a sense of calm, a confidence that something would show him the right way._

_There was another flash of silver. This time he thought perhaps it was a light. It reminded him of the deluminator only larger. It flitted quickly in front of him and disappeared again. Moments later a large crack of a branch behind him made him jump. He spun on his heal but there was nothing there. His heart was racing in his chest and he stood very still as he waited for it to calm. He hadn’t checked, but he knew already he had no wand to protect him._

_After a few minutes he felt ready to continue forwards when there was another crack. It came quieter than the first but no less worrisome in the encroaching darkness. The temperature dropped a few degrees. He realised he was only wearing a thin t-shirt. The sliver of silver appeared once again to his right and this time it stayed. There was no choice really but to go towards it. A shiver of apprehension ran down his spine, but his legs moved of their own accord, occasionally slipping on patches of damp moss._

_As he approached, he realised the silver wasn’t light at all, but his little fox. Aspen seemed smaller amongst the wide tree trunks, but perhaps he hadn’t taken the time to notice just how young the fox really was. Aspen keened at him in a way that he interpreted as desperate and scampered off to the east. He followed quickly, feeling like losing sight of his furry companion would be the worst thing in the world._

_Aspen moved far quicker than he had expected. He twisted and turned with speed and precision that was impossible to replicate on two legs, though he tried valiantly. Time felt elastic as he strained his eyes to follow the fox. Minutes bunched together then spread out in waves that left him confused and disorientated. It was clearly still night even though he’d been walking an infinite amount of time. There hadn’t been a single change in the deep inky blue of the sky. He wished he’d paid more attention in astronomy so he could read the stars._

_Finally, Aspen led him to a small circular clearing. It had a strange glow about it, as if it were lit by lanterns except there were none. He could see the fox clearly now, his pointed ears twitching with interest and his tail batting at the clumps of grass ferociously. In the glow his grey eyes looked like molten silver. A familiar sort of grey, although he couldn’t say why._

_There were trees on three sides of the clearing except for dead ahead where a narrow river ran slowly. No sound came from the calm water although there should have been that familiar rushing sound as it breezed over rock and riverbed. He almost didn’t notice this anomaly because right in front of the break in the trees where the river lay was a large stone arch. It looked weather beaten and abandoned, lichen growing from the cracks in the stones. It was still standing, but barely._

_He was compelled to go nearer. Aspen prowled along around the edges of the arch, sniffing at the stone and digging gently at the ground. As he drew nearer Aspen began to yip at him, maybe in encouragement or warning, it was hard to tell. When he was about six feet away, it seemed to flare into life. A white mist effused beneath the arch stones. It swirled and filled to the corners before settling like a fine sheen of satin, billowing in the breeze. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but when he came within touching distance he jumped back as if burned._

_Emanating from the misty substance were murmurs. They sounded like people, a sort of chattering like the halls of Hogwarts or an evening dinner at the Burrow. No voice was any more distinguishable than the next, words were impossible to decipher, but somehow, he understood. There were people beyond that arch. They were trapped there. For a brief moment he felt he should reach in and pull them out, but that seemed wrong. It wasn’t the natural order. Aspen tugged at his legs. Maybe there were lots of people through the arch, but how would he know who they were? Maybe they were there for a reason. They could be bad people, or people who chose to be there, or people sent there for a purpose._

_The murmurs shifted and then he wasn’t sure if they were the murmurs of people at all. There was a loud humming noise, as if the frequency had been turned up too loud. It buzzed in his ears and rang through his head like a siren. Aspen started wailing at his feet; horrible, grating wailing that felt like it scraped at his bones. Something was very wrong about this place and he shouldn’t be there, he concluded. There was an agonising pull between blocking out the noise and reaching through the mist. If he didn’t decide soon it would tear him apart and then what? He opened his mouth to scream._

Harry shot bolt upright in his bed. The sheets were damp with sweat and Aspen was sitting on his lap screaming at him. It was clearly still the middle of the night. His blood rushed in his ears and he gulped in air like he was oxygen starved. He reached for the fox and it curled into his arms like a small child. Luna had advised that under no circumstances should he let Aspen sleep in the bed with him, but on this occasion the pair of them went back to sleep together, Harry holding Aspen gently against his chest.


	7. Chapter 7

Friday 30th April 1999

It was safe to say Draco’s world got a little bit crazy after his stay in that holding cell. Outwardly, it didn’t appear that anything had changed at all. There was no word from the Ministry about Potter, or his supposed involvement, although Draco had received no apology either, and he was just starting to relax about the situation a whole two months later.

Being under house arrest, Draco had been mostly shielded from the fallout of Potter’s disappearance. He of course knew that it was splattered all over every newspaper from here to the Mediterranean, but he’d had no real concept of the level of conspiracy which had been stirred up by wizarding media. For the third time in a month, he’d been caught out by a nasty conjunctivitis curse trapped inside a cleverly disguised letter which Draco could have sworn had been written in his mother’s hand. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the ear-shrivelling curse, but unpleasant, nonetheless.

It hadn’t taken long for the papers to get wind of Draco’s arrest, what with him having been marched right through the middle of the Ministry. He had officially become the scapegoat even though there was no evidence to suggest he had done anything. A petition to have him sent to Azkaban on a life sentence effective immediately already had 50,000 signatures. In a bizarre way he found it absolutely hilarious. If someone had told him when he was eleven that one day he would be famed across most of Europe for the kidnap (and potential murder) of Harry Potter, he’d have asked for it in writing. However, he was also very aware that this put him in the worst possible position. What hope for the future could he have if after his house arrest, he was a social pariah?

Pansy had taken his arrest as an invitation to move in with him and whilst he was grateful for her company, more so than he could ever have anticipated, it also meant he was seeing a lot more of Granger. Granger, according to Pansy, was only around the Manor under the pretext of helping Draco avoid a sentence in Azkaban. Considering she hadn’t explicitly said she was going to do anything of the sort, and there was no reason to suspect he was about to be arrested again, Draco was dubious.

However, knowing that a spell in Azkaban _might_ be on his cards, Draco was using his time to really appreciate the manor’s gardens. Of course, there were conditions for release set on him already, so the prospect of going to Azkaban wasn’t terribly new. However, being in that cell was the longest Draco had actually ever been contained, and he was realising anew that Azkaban was no laughing matter.

Carefully and meticulously cultivated by his mother, the gardens had been falling into disrepair in the past couple of years – there was no time to prune and weed when the house was infested with Death Eaters. Although Draco was no horticulturalist, he was doing his best to stop the borders and the rose garden running rampant. Spring was just getting its act together and the temperature had risen enough that he could spend a few hours outdoors without freezing his arse off.

Of all the parts of the grounds, Draco’s favourite was a small corner towards the western border of their land which was home to a collection of aspen trees. Aspen weren’t native to Wiltshire and although there were plenty of them up in Scotland, his mother had imported this variety from Nova Scotia because they were her favourite. They were quickly becoming his favourite too. On milder days it was under the aspen trees, in the rapidly brightening spring sunshine, that he felt he could think most clearly.

Since his delightful stay in the Ministry holding cell, the situation had been explained to him, via Granger, who was actually a great help even if he resented her manner. A witness in the Leaky that day had come forward with a suggestion that Draco might have had something to do with Potter’s disappearance, based on claiming to have seen him slipping out of the side entrance of the Ministry near the estimated day of Potter’s disappearance – 7th September 1998. Then, traces of Potter’s magical signature had been detected by a specialist team of Unspeakables, or so Granger told him. It wasn’t public knowledge nor would it be. Granger said it was all too convenient that the Ministry could use the Unspeakables to say whatever they wanted, but in Draco’s opinion it really didn’t matter whether it was right or not; they had to prepare for the worst.

But he wasn’t going to worry about that now. He was going to the aspen trees to clear his head. It was beautifully sunny that afternoon, and the dappled shade of the tall trees was a welcome relief for his pale skin. What he came to do here most often was to work on his animagus form. Granger had managed to smuggle him the potions ingredients he had needed to brew the potion which prepared his body to transform. It had been a nightmare to brew, but now that he had done it there were just two hurdles left. The first of which, was to figure out what form he was going to take.

Most days after he had left the Ministry, he had come out to the Aspen trees, cleared his mind, and tried to form an image. After he had taken the potion, he had started to feel the pull towards alternative form than he one he inhabited now, but so far he hadn’t figured out what it was.

Today he sat cross legged on the slightly damp grass, closing his eyes and allowing his thoughts to wander to the earth beneath his feet. He could feel wisps of silver, thin like spider’s webs reaching out towards him. There was an instinct to run, as if he needed to catch something. The earth was solid beneath his feet, but he could sense the rumblings of life beneath the surface. A hunter, then. The wind blew through his…fur? And as he ran branches and thorns snagged on his tail. He was getting closer; he could feel it. Heart pounding heavily in his chest, he took a deep breath and brace himself for-

“Draco! There you are!” His eyes snapped open. Sensations started coming back to him – the feeling of the sun edging out over the cover of the trees, the birds singing and small animals rustling in the hedgerows. Pansy was marching towards him across the grass with purpose, a look of exasperation on her face.

“For fuck sake Pans,” he complained, “I was about to make a breakthrough then!” Pansy winced but she didn’t apologise. She never apologised.

She stared at him as if she was expecting him to say something else. “Hermione’s here and she wants to talk to you. It’s important.” Instantly his heartrate went through the roof.

“Did something happen?!” He asked her in alarm. Right away Pansy’s hands came up to calm him down.

“Nothing bad happened. She just wants to talk to you, ok? I think it’d be better for her to explain it herself.” Draco nodded, all thought of how close he was to discovering his animagus form pushed to the back of his mind. Together they traipsed back up to the house, which took much longer than he remembered when he came out, and found Granger sitting in the parlour where the grand piano resides.

Whatever it was that Granger wanted to say to him, it was evidently off the record. She was sat primly on one of the overfilled sofas wearing a white turtleneck jumper and dark tailored trousers. Unlike her usual bushy mane of hair, her curls were sleek and pinned in a loose fashion away from her face. It gave the overall impression that she was planning on going somewhere. Part of him hoped she wasn’t feeling pressure by Pansy to look like a Parisian model. Heaven knew Pansy spent far too much time preening, and that was saying something coming from Draco.

Draco took a seat opposite Granger’s whilst Pansy sat next to her. There was already a tea service set out on the low table between them – Pansy must have ordered it before she came to get him. That or Granger was far too familiar in the Manor, and that didn’t seem likely. He did the honours.

“What is this about then?” He asked when they were settled with their tea. There was a pause as Granger looked to Pansy, who nodded in encouragement.

“Well,” Granger began hesitantly. Draco found it amusing that she was now being so timid; it made a significant change from the last time he had an ‘important’ discussion with her. “I’ve heard on the grapevine,” she gestured vaguely, “that the Ministry have found Harry’s wand.” Draco had just finished taking a sip of tea as she spoke, and his teacup clattered back onto the saucer more violently that he anticipated.

He didn’t want to appear too eager to know the details, but in truth he was terrified. “Where?” It was difficult to keep his voice steady but he just about managed. Surely, it couldn’t be good news if Potter had been separated from his wand? He could picture green eyes and messy black hair. The honeyed sound of Potter’s laugh echoed in his ears and made his chest ache. He had gone about this all wrong and Potter could be lost to him forever. To them.

“In the Department of Mysteries.”

Draco wished the floor would swallow him whole. Of course, he had told himself all along that Potter had gone through the Veil as he said he would, but somewhere in the back of his mind he held onto the hope that he hadn’t. That he’d listened to what Draco had said and come up with another plan. Because if Potter really had stepped through, which it appeared that he had, there was no way of knowing if he even still existed.

The thought of living the rest of his life not knowing if Potter was alive or dead was like a black hole opening up inside him. There had been opportunities to make amends. At almost any time during school Draco could have chosen to be a better person. He could have apologised; done the right thing. Potter would never have returned any of Draco’s affections, he knew that, but they could have been friends.

“I see.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Pansy burst out. “You Gryffindors always make things so difficult! Tell him the rest, would you? Before he implodes.” Pansy fidgeted in her seat and Draco’s stomach sunk to the floor. She has that familiar maniacal look in her eyes that told him there was a terrible plan afoot.

“I was doing some research after you told me what Harry said. There isn’t very much on the Veil because no one really knows anything about it, but I keep hearing about an experiment carried about by the Unspeakables, before they were the Unspeakables, which would allow people to pass through for a short period of time and come back again.” Draco stared at her as she brought her teacup to her lips. What did this have to do with anything? No one really knew when the Unspeakables were formed, but it had to be hundreds of years ago. Surely if any experiment like that had been a success, the Ministry would have been very careful not to leave any traces of it anywhere.

“Where did you find this?” He asked Granger. Pansy was practically vibrating in her seat.

“Well…I maybe have done some digging…”

“Say no more,” he interrupted, thinking better of it. “I want plausible deniability.” Granger smirked.

“Anyway,” she pressed on. “One of the names mentioned in this experiment was a Brutus Malfoy. I think it’s safe to assume he’s one of yours?” She said _one of yours_ in the same way one might expect someone who had found a hair in their dinner.

“Yes. Brutus is _one of mine_ , but I sincerely doubt he had anything to do with it. From what I know he was an editor for an anti-muggle serial. He’d hardly have been the type to try crossing over to the land of the dead.” Although now that he said it out loud, it did sound rather like a Malfoy pastime.

“We’re talking over three hundred years ago; you can’t possibly know everything he did. Besides, you’re the best hope I have.” She paused to consider whether she should continue. “I wondered if you’d ever heard of the _ancorae mortibus_ paradigm.” This was one of the few times Draco regretted knowing Latin because even though he wasn’t familiar with the term, he most certainly knew what it meant, and he really rather hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was.

“No, I’m not.” He kept his voice flat, hoping that if he could feign disinterest, Granger might let the subject lie. He lent forward and poured himself and Pansy a second cup of tea. Granger was so preoccupied she’d hardly touched hers.

“Draco could help you look for it though, couldn’t you?” Pansy interjected lightly. She seemed far too bright and interested for someone who detested anything remotely close to hard work or magical theory. He wondered what it was the two of them found to talk about.

Pansy pinned him with a look that seemed to say _you will help my girlfriend do this or I’ll break every bone in your body._ She was really quite fluent in body language. That, or Draco knew her far too well. He supposed that if what Granger had said was true, and a Malfoy really was involved, there would be a paper trail back to the Manor. There was over a century’s worth of material stored up within the house’s many twisting corridors and hidden rooms.

“The thing is Draco, I mean- Malfoy, if you’re brought in again there won’t be much I can do for you. I’m not qualified and what I did to post your bail could have seen me struck off before I was even on. If we want to get Harry back and keep you out of Azkaban, we don’t have any other choice.” She looked scared as she said that, and Draco noticed that Pansy shifted just a little closer to her. He tried to think about how it might feel to see Potter again and he found he couldn’t. Things would be so completely different now. Maybe, Potter would even hate him more for not doing anything to stop him, and if he helped Granger he might end up with even more blood on his hands if something were to go wrong.

He couldn’t help the feeling of terror that crawled up his spine. There was no one to help him this time. No father, no mother, not even Severus. Ultimately it gave him two choices. He could refuse to help Granger and let the court of public opinion swell to the point that the still-corrupt Ministry arrested him anyway, or, he could go with her, try to fix the problem he helped cause, get caught, and be arrested anyway.

Looked like he’d be getting arrested anyway.

“What do you need me to do?”

He took Granger up to one of the libraries in the North Wing, where his father’s study remained locked at all times. They left Pansy downstairs to amuse herself, which probably meant she would try to teach herself the Chopin he’d left open on the piano, even though she hadn’t had a single lesson and couldn’t read music.

His father had always preferred to have his study on the north side of the house because the Manor was south-facing, and it meant he could spend whole days there without the sun blinding him. Draco couldn’t remember the last time he had been in this particular library. It had always been forbidden to him as a child, although it hardly mattered since the door was sealed with an old kind of magic that had been woven into the very building. It only recognised and gave admittance to the current Malfoy patriarch. No matter how gifted a wizard Draco had been as a child, which was actually a fair bit even though he had always been overshadowed, he would never have been able to get in.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like this…” Granger said with wonder as they approach the deep mahogany door. Even Draco could admit that it was an impressive door. It was goblin-made, back in the days before they got big-headed and only worked with precious metal. The wood was intricately carved with all kinds of ancient pureblood symbolisms – a mixture between standard emblems like swans and bees, and family-specific engravings such as the Malfoy family crest. Draco read the words _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_ and, not for the first time, felt disgusted at the principles his family had stood for over hundreds of years.

It almost made him smile to picture the look on his father’s face if he could see that Draco was bringing Granger into his private library. Except of course, if his father were to find out he wouldn’t have any look on his face because there was nothing of him left but the empty cavern of his body.

“This door is as old as the land itself,” he told Granger to force his thoughts away from his father. “This land was gifted to my ancestor Armand Malfoy by William the Conqueror after the Norman Conquest. The door was carved from the trees that were felled to build the main house. It’s imbued with so much magic I’m not even sure how much of it is really wood anymore.”

Granger looked thoughtful. “It’s very pretty. Shame about the intolerant motto taking front and centre.” Draco almost laughed, but he found he quite agreed. She was proof that blood made very little difference to magical ability, although he would be hard-pressed to tell anyone when exactly he came to that realisation.

He cleared his throat and stepped in front of her, effectively putting an end to their conversation. He placed his palm flat against the intricate designs and felt the thrum of magic beneath the surface. Since taking over from his father, Draco had discovered many hidden corridors and rooms around the Manor that he hadn’t known about before. It certainly explained how his father had always seems to know when Draco had misbehaved, and why _He_ had been so keen to stay here during the war. Draco shivered and he wasn’t sure if it was the magic of the door or the flash of dark black robes and bright red eyes that swam across his vision.

The wards embedded in the door clicked open beneath his palm like a key turning in a lock. The door creaked open slowly and sunlight streamed through into the hallway. The magically sealed room inside was any historian’s treasure trove. It was this library which held the oldest and rarest of the Malfoy volumes. It was carefully preserved with charms and wards to protect the most fragile of pages. The magic itself was so strong that even natural sunlight couldn’t penetrate the protections. From as early as Draco could remember his father had begun teaching him the conservation charms, although it was a while before he had the competency to try for himself. Now it was Draco’s sole responsibility to look after these books and manuscripts, some of which contained magic so rare that these tomes were the only written proof of its existence.

Granger rushed past him and went directly to the bookcases which lined the wall. In another time Draco would have blown his lid at her presumptuousness, but she meant well so he let it slide.

“We’re looking for something dating to around the seventeenth century.” She said as she scanned the first bookcase. “I’m not sure exactly what kind of thing it would be in. It might be something totally unmarked, or it could be hidden in a Dark Arts book. It’s really difficult to say.

“That’ll be in the modern section then,” he told her, pointing towards the bookcase on the far right. He glanced over at the small desk his father had added to this room. It wasn’t as intricate and ostentatious as the desk in his study, but he had added a simpler one to this room, presumably so he didn’t have to lug heavy books and delicate manuscripts across different floors. There was a quill abandoned on the scratched surface, its tip stained with dried black ink. Draco wondered what it was his father had been researching the last time he had been in here.

“The modern section?” Granger was staring at him with one raised eyebrow. “Seventeenth century, modern?”

“Oh come off it, Granger. You know what I mean. Early modern if you will. There are manuscripts in this room that date back to ninth-century France, the seventeenth is absolutely modern.”

Granger stood there grinning at him. It was horribly disconcerting because they most certainly couldn’t be getting along.

“Draco Malfoy, you’re a veritable history buff!”

“Never take my name in vein like that again,” he said threateningly, but at the last minute he cracked a smile and the illusion was ruined.

They searched meticulously through the seventeenth-century section. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack but whenever Draco glanced over at Granger and saw the look of determined concentration on her face, he couldn’t help but redouble his efforts.

Most of what they found were revisions of pureblood rituals and traditions. Half of them made no sense at all and the ones that did were so old and barbaric that even Draco couldn’t face reading them. One of the more grotesque ones suggested that if a pureblood patriarch died without leaving an heir, his genitals should be dipped in a preservation potion and used posthumously.

Draco snapped that particular book closed before he was sick all over it. Although that might have been an improvement.

An hour and a half went by and they found nothing. They barely spoke other than to qualify certain words for each other in some of the Latin passages. Quite a few of them were written in Early Modern English but predominantly they were Latin. Pansy had another tray of tea sent up for them, probably hoping it would speed them up. Not long after that the light started to fade, and Draco lit the lamps in the room so they could keep reading. He was about to give up when suddenly Granger made a triumphant _ahah!_ noise.

“What? What is it?” He leapt up from his position on the floor to look over her shoulder at the desk. She had found a small text bound in worn tan leather with gold-gilded edging. Half of the book appeared to be blank aside from about ten pages of a journal-style monologue followed by three pages of what looked like a cooking recipe, but Draco guessed was instructions for the spell.

“It looks rather complicated,” he mused as he read over Granger’s shoulder.

“It sort of is, but it’s also very vague. There are so many words that I presume don’t exist in Latin that have been substituted. They don’t exactly fit in the context though.” She pointed towards the word _caduceus_. A literal translation would be referring to the staff carried by the Greek god Hermes or his Roman counterpart, Mercury. Did that mean a long staff, the literal caduceus, or was it a roundabout way of referring to a magical wand in a time before they were in popular use? It was impossible to say.

“So what this is saying is, if we can get hold of Potter’s wand, it should be connected enough to him that we could create a living anchor on this side of the Veil and pull him back through?”

“In a roundabout way, yes.”

It seemed to be going well. There was actually a flicker of hope inside him that he hadn’t messed the whole thing up – at least, not to an unsalvageable extent, but there was something about that Latin phrase that was putting him off.

“Granger, how familiar are you with the third declension?”

Granger looked at him like he was losing his mind “As familiar as one can be with the third declension. It’s not a particularly difficult concept.” He couldn’t tell if she thought he was insulting her intelligence or not, but he just wanted to be sure what she was saying.

“Ok, but you’re aware that mortibus could be either dative _or_ ablative plural?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t need a Latin grammar lesson, what are you trying to say?”

“Well, will this spell, supposing it works, create an anchor _for_ the dead or _to_ the dead? Because one would establish a moving connection with the other side and the other would effectively have us fishing for corpses.” The word had been niggling away at him, but he’d only just figured out why. The colour drained from Granger’s face and she pursed her lips in thought. She turned back to the watermarked pages and scanned them again.

“It doesn’t specify…” She turned the page over and then back again, “anywhere.” They stood there in silence for a while. Draco felt like an ominous cloud had opened above his head and released a deluge of rain over him. Even if this experiment had been successful, which was improbable, even if they could replicate it, which was unlikely, there was no guarantee there was anything to connect to.

“Granger…”

“No. Don’t you dare. This is the closest I’ve got to finding anything useful! Ron is in Romania and he can’t leave Charlie alone with the dragons, Ginny is off playing in the Quidditch International League, Luna is on a residential in the Galapagos, and Pansy-” she broke off and he could see she was trying not to cry. Awkwardly, he put a hand on her shoulder, although he wasn’t sure how comforting he was.

“Is as useful as a chocolate teapot,” Draco finished for her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to imply that I don’t want to help, I do, but I also don’t think Potter would want you to harm yourself trying to help him.”

Granger looked up at him with watery eyes. “But what choice do we have?”

Draco knew exactly what choice they had, but he was slowly coming to the realisation that Granger had clearly already had, that not doing anything wasn’t an option.

“What can we do? If the Ministry have his wand then we’re not going to be able to get it. And even if we could, I’m not allowed to leave the Manor unless it’s for something related to my non-existent case or my health. The latter wouldn’t even give me an excuse to go to the Ministry.” The theory, Draco could handle. In fact, he was rather excited about having a complex puzzle to solve. The practicalities, however. Well, he had always been the brains behind the operation.

But this didn’t seem to bother Granger in the slightest.

“What if _you_ didn’t go to the Ministry at all?”


	8. Chapter 8

Thursday 4th November 1999

The next time Harry went to Luna’s place the front door was locked. Luna never ever locked her front door, which meant something funny was going on. He knocked politely and when there was no reply, he made his way around the side of the house. It was absolutely bloody freezing; the shift from October to November had been fierce and even in his warmest coat Harry found himself huddling over against the arctic winds. The sky was nearly black with cloud and if he didn’t move fast, he was going to get drenched by the inevitable downpour.

It was perplexing then that as he made his way to the back of the house, it was like walking into one of those cartoon rainclouds that followed one character, only in reverse. Not long after Luna had moved in, but long before Malfoy arrived, Luna had single-handedly constructed a large conservatory out the back of the house. It was attached to the plant-filled living room, although it was difficult to tell that considering the plants covered so much of the walls. Harry had never been in the conservatory, but he had noticed it had a long coffee table, some comfortable looking sofas, and what he thought looked like sewing equipment in one corner.

The double doors at the end of the conservatory which opened out onto the land out the back were wide open. The light curtains were billowing out of the open doorway like they were dancing on a gentle breeze, except where Harry was standing, there were icy gale-force winds whipping at his back. The whole conservatory was glowing like a warm summer’s day and as the strumming of a guitar drifted across the wind, Harry wondered if he had accidently crossed continents.

He saw Malfoy sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, looking right out into the garden as if there was a beautiful meadow view even though the brightness and warmth came from within the house. The first thing he noticed was that she had let her hair out again, like she had at the pub, and strands were blowing around her face in the breeze. He realised then that she had used a contained weather charm – a type of portable weather system which could be activated for a short period of time.

Even though it was freezing cold, Harry felt compelled to stop and take in the sight before him. Malfoy’s weather system was emanating from a small, blue-tinged glass jar set by her feet. She was sitting on a short stool with her guitar in her lap, plucking a twinkling little melody which reminded Harry of hot summer evenings even though it was early November and bitterly cold. Just as Harry edged closer, behind a bush that sheltered him from the harsh wind, the melody changed, and she started to sing.

_Wise men say_

_Only fools rush in_

_But I can't help falling in love with you._

The cold was making Harry’s face hurt and he had started shivering, but he didn’t even think to cast a warming charm because he was so distracted by what he saw. There was a pale, yellow glow coming from the weather jar that brightened her face and made her long, silvery curls shine. Every now and again she closed her eyes as she sang, as if she was really _feeling_ the words. To him, it made her look ethereal.

_Shall I stay_

_Would it be a sin?_

_If I can't help falling in love with you._

There was a warmth burning in Harry’s chest as her voice carried on the wind like an echo. It was a rich and sweet sound that felt like it reached into his very soul. He was once again mesmerised by the way her fingers danced over the strings. He’d forgotten since that night at the open mic just how talented a musician she was; he remembered how beautiful she had looked when she forgot anyone was watching.

_Like a river flows_

_Surely to the sea_

_Darling so it goes_

_Some things are meant to be_

For just a moment he wondered what it would be like to love Malfoy and to be loved by her. Until then he’d never thought of her as the kind of person someone loved. Not because she was unlovable, but because he’d rarely ever thought of her as a real person with real feelings and a real ability to care. Seeing her moved by the music made it hard to believe this was the same person he associated with ignorance, intolerance, and Death Eaters.

Now that he thought about it, these ideas were harder to grasp. He frowned, trying to picture the look on Malfoy’s face at the top of the Astronomy Tower that fateful night, but the harder he tried to match the face before him to the memory, the further away from him it seemed. It was like he was losing touch, drifting away, anchorless.

_Take my hand_

_Take my whole life too,_

_For I can't help falling in love with you_

He couldn’t bear to stand in his hiding place any longer. He stepped out from behind the bush and walked with false confidence to the conservatory. Malfoy was still singing, now with her eyes closed, and didn’t open them again until Harry was almost right in front of her. As soon as she saw him, the music stopped. In the split second that her face remained open and serene he noticed how long her eyelashes were as they brushed against her cheekbones when she blinked.

“P-Potter! What the hell are you doing here?!” It was disappointing that the serenity was gone, but Harry sort of liked the fierceness in her grey eyes as she glared at him. It also felt like some kind of spell had broken, although there was none involved but the weather jar. Having Malfoy stare at him in irritation reminded him that this was _Malfoy,_ and he most certainly should not be mesmerised by anything remotely Malfoy.

“You have a beautiful voice.” He said before he could stop himself. Her glare softened, as if suspended, and it took a second for her to get over the shock of being complimented. She blinked her long eyelashes again and the warmth in Harry’s chest fluttered like it was trying to escape. A fine strand of hair fell into her eyes and instinctively he reached out to tuck it behind her ear. She stared, frozen, as he did so.

Her expression shuttered. The gentle openness of her expression reverted to the look of blank indifference he was so used to. It made the warmth in his chest twist into a dull ache.

When she spoke next her tone was flat and cold. “Don’t say that to be polite, Potter. I don’t need validation from you.”

He was astounded. “What? I mean it! I could listen to you all day. Ever since that open mic night I-”

“Don’t.” Malfoy interrupted, “Talk about that. It was a stupid idea.” Harry felt like the bottom fell out of his world. It seemed an utterly disproportionate reaction, but Harry had really felt like something had changed in him when he heard Malfoy sing. The idea that she didn’t enjoy showing others a talent that made her so interesting, and for once approachable, a talent that made him happy and want to know her more – it hurt him.

“No it wasn’t!” He exclaimed, probably too quickly. “People should get to hear you. It would be a crime to keep talent like that hidden.” It seemed important to tell her that. It didn’t matter that they weren’t yet friends or that at one point in time he had thought he hated her, right now all that mattered was that she saw in herself what he saw in her.

“Yeah, well. I’m a criminal, aren’t I.” She said in a low tone. It crushed him to see her frown and turn away from him, to be so dismissive of herself.

“Not to me,” he said as she left the warmth of the conservatory for the jungle-style living room. It was too quiet for her to hear, or so he thought, except she hesitated for a fraction of a second before apparently ignoring him.

He didn’t want to see the weather jar run out when there was no one there to enjoy it, so he located the lid under a pile of books and screwed it back on. By the time he had done so she had disappeared. He found her again in the kitchen, standing near a hardback book open somewhere near the middle, a thin wooden bookmark with an owl on it sticking up where it was wedged between pages.

“What are you doing here anyway?” She broke the awkward silence. “Luna isn’t here. She’s at school on Thursdays.” She hadn’t noticed that Harry hadn’t brought Aspen with him. Ron had finally stopped sloping off to wherever he was going all the and he agreed to let Harry have an afternoon not keeping an eye on Aspen. If this was what co-parenting would be like in the future, Harry would have to pass. Although, it had been Harry’s decision to keep Aspen, and he hadn’t exactly consulted Ron before making it, so he probably shouldn’t complain.

Harry stood in the middle of the kitchen; his eyes glued to the jut of Malfoy’s hipbone through her thin shirt as she leant against the kitchen table. “Yeah, I know. I actually wanted to see you.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. Without the buffer of Luna or Aspen, things were stilted between them. Harry desperately wanted to ask her why she went to such pains to stay out of his way whenever he was around, but the room felt claustrophobic as it was, and he didn’t want to make things worse.

Suddenly she was alert. She stopped leaning against the table, the quick movement causing the splayed pages of the book to rustle and reorganise themselves around the bookmark. “Me?” She asked him with wide eyes, her hands twitching at her sides, “What on earth for?”

“Are you ok?” He asked her. He could see he was making her nervous. She’d started shifting her weight from foot to foot and clenching and unclenching her fists. It wasn’t his intention to make her uncomfortable.

“Would you like tea?” She asked him, almost before he’d finished his question, her voice sounding jittery. It was unbelievable to Harry that the serene woman he’d seen just minutes before was now flighty and itching to move. It was like someone had flicked a personality switch.

He didn’t want tea at all, but he could see that she needed something to do with her hands. “Sure.”

It was strange that even though she didn’t ask him how he took it, she still managed to present him with tea exactly how he liked it; milky with one sugar. He couldn’t help but stare down at the cup as she put in in front of him – had she taken that much notice in school? He didn’t ask. Together they walked back through to the conservatory Malfoy had been sitting in when Harry had arrived. She took the lid back off the weather jar and Harry removed his coat and the jumper he had been wearing underneath. It was like sitting out in the sun on a baking hot August day.

This time he didn’t hide his stare when he observed how her face changed in the golden light. It was still a long and pointy face, but the glow highlighted the fullness of her mouth and the curve of her cupid’s bow, the precise arch of her eyebrows and the flawlessness of her skin. He had spent so many years staring at her across the hall at Hogwarts, trying to figure out what she was talking about and what she was planning, and yet he had never noticed any of these things before.

“Is there something on my face?” She said suddenly, putting down her tea and smoothing her hands over her cheeks and forehead. He almost laughed at the rare display of insecurity, but he refrained.

“No, no. Not at all.”

“It’s because I’m not wearing make-up isn’t it?”

Harry frowned. “Of course not! What on earth would make you-”

“My father used to say,” she interrupted, “that if I wanted to make the right impression, attract the right kind of attention, I should look my best at all times. Because I could never know when someone important might be around.” She said it in monotone, as if she was reeling off a speech she’d heard a million times before.

“That’s- awful. And wrong.” In that moment it was like the gentle breeze from the weather jar had given him a gust of the kind of confidence he’d never had before, “you’re beautiful exactly as you are.” And he meant it.

Now, contrary to popular belief, Harry wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t under any misguided belief that make up’s only purpose was to make people look pretty or to help them hide themselves. He had seen the way Luna used those magipowders on her eyelids to make each blink look like fluttering butterflies. He’d seen the way Hermione meticulously chose the exact shade of lipstick that would match her outfit because it made her feel organised and powerful; he knew that Dean’s amazing ability to always produce the most symmetrical and precise winged eyeliner was his way of expressing his creative drive.

Essentially, Harry knew make up was no more or less an artform that brushes on a canvas, but what Harry couldn’t _stand_ , was the idea of anyone being made to feel like their worth had anything to do with what they painted on, or specifically left off, their face.

A rosy glow came to the surface of her skin, not like the brick-red that tinged Ron’s ears whenever he was embarrassed. She seemed unable to respond but he didn’t mind that. Seeing the small smile on Malfoy’s face, watching that glow brighten her pale skin as she flushed elegantly, right before the gust of confidence blew away again, was enough to make him want to say it again and again and again.

“That’s not why you came here.” She looked desperate to change the subject and began fiddling with the strings on her guitar. He liked that when she was nervous, she needed to keep her hands occupied. He’d never noticed that before.

The moment was lost, but somehow, he knew there would be another one. “No, it isn’t.”

She allowed him to watch her for a while. It was strange for the two of them to be content in silence, but he also knew he couldn’t leave Aspen with Ron forever, and each minute he spent here was probably agony for the pair he left at home.

Even though he had come here for a specific purpose, and even though he should have been responsible and kept his visit short, he found himself desperate to extend the time he had with Malfoy. It was the longest they had ever been alone together, and it was also the longest period of time she’d actually acknowledged his presence. He wanted it to mean something.

So, instead of getting on with what he came here to speak to her about, he chose another path.

“Why did you move here?” He asked her. It definitely startled her.

“I’m sorry?”

“You moved in with Luna. That night at the open mic you were wearing her clothes. It’s different and a wondered why. Did you still live at the manor before?”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.” She was being deliberately prickly.

Harry sighed. “Is it so hard for you to be my friend? You’re friends with Luna, I’m friends with Luna. You love Aspen, Aspen is…weirdly obsessed with you. Wouldn’t it just be easier if we got along? I know you avoid me.” He hadn’t planned on being this direct, but if he wanted her to agree to his plan, he had to be sure that she wouldn’t walk out halfway through because they got in a fight.

She tilted her head to one side as she considered this. It was creepily similar to the head tilt Aspen did when he was trying to understand things. Harry wondered if Aspen picked it up from Malfoy or if it was the other way around.

“I was living at the Manor with my mother still,” she said slowly, as if weighing each word before she spoke it. “We were allowed to stay there while the Ministry valued assets and auctioned things off. When they were done, we were told to leave.” Her voice became strained, although Harry could see no sign of tears. “My mother decided to leave Wiltshire and move up north to a small village in the Lake District. She wanted me to go with her but there was nothing for me there.”

“I’m sorry.”

She turned her head to the open doors, looking out into the gloomy day. It gave him a perfect view of her jawline. “Luna was the only person I could think of who wouldn’t turn me away. She’s been good to me. She keeps telling me it’s been too long since I wrote to mother, and she’s not wrong, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I think some things are better left unsaid.”

Harry didn’t really know what to say. All he could see was a war waging behind Malfoy’s eyes. It made him think about a time when Malfoy hadn’t faced some kind of conflict and found he didn’t know of one. “I hope you find some peace.” He chose to say in the end.

Her eyes flicked back to his with what seemed like astonishment, but she said nothing.

The lull was the time for him to tell her about what he really came for, but it was also hard for him to explain it when he wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted. She went back to her guitar, playing chords quietly while he thought.

“I er, thought you might be able to help me with something. For Sirius. He said you see him sometimes?”

She glanced up from her guitar, peering through the curls continuously falling into her face.

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’? I haven’t even told you what it is yet…” He should have known that their ease with each other was only temporary. It would take a miracle for them to truly get along.

“You don’t need to.” She sniffed. Her entire body seemed closed to him now. “I already know it’s stupid, it won’t work, and it’s not worth my time.” Had she always been so pessimistic?

“You know, it would be nice if you had _some_ faith in me.” It was then that he noticed an amused smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, and he realised she was having him on.

“I’ll leave that to the general public if you don’t mind, Potter. They have more than enough to go around. They might even throw in a fruit basket if you ask nicely.”

“But I’m asking _you_ nicely.” He smiled at her sweetly.

“I’m not the general public.”

“Malfoy!”

“Potter!” She mocked.

“Will you please just listen to me?”

She sighed, but she was smiling too. “If it’ll shut you up, but I’m not saying I’m going to help.”

“I want to get in touch with Remus. Professor Lupin, that is. I think it’s time he and Sirius… I don’t know, got a few things straight with each other? They were friends, before we were born. When Sirius was sent to Azkaban…well, I guess Remus believed what everyone else did.”

The iciness in her voice was enough to turn even the weather jar cold.

“The werewolf. You want me to help you set my cousin up with a werewolf.” Her tone was flat and even though brightness of the falsified summer was still shining, wasn’t enough to make her long face look pleasant. Harry felt a flare of irritation. It wasn’t as if he expected her to be a different person than she had been for the first eighteen years of her life, but he had expected her to at least try to be less judgemental.

“If you’re going to be like that, I’ll walk out that door and never speak to you again.” He snapped, standing up and going to get his coat. He wasn’t ready to brave the freezing November day, nor did he want to come away empty handed, but he wasn’t going to enable her ignorance.

“You say that like I care. We’re not friends.” She spat with the kind of venom he wouldn’t have thought her capable of mere moments ago.

He felt dejected. He had thought they’d just agreed to be just that. “No, I suppose we’re not.” He said quietly.

“Potter, wait. That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh? Because it’s definitely what you said.”

“Yes, I realise that but-”

“But nothing. If that’s how you feel I’ll do it on my own.”

“Potter, please. Will it- will it make him happy?” Harry turned and saw the earnest look on her face. Recently he’d begun to realise the pattern in Malfoy’s behaviour. When they were kids, Malfoy had been snotty and snarky to impress, because being quick and intelligent made her stand out. Now that they were older, it seemed to Harry that this had become a defence – that when she didn’t trust her own opinion, or didn’t feel valued, she could fall back on that shell of meanness and quick wit. It didn’t excuse it, but Harry understood it. And he was determined to put a stop to it.

“Yes, it will. If you want to do something for someone else for once in your life, you can start by not being a judgemental prick.” She was so taken aback by the force with which he spoke that she almost dropped her guitar on the floor. Luckily, he caught it by its neck with his seeker’s reflexes, dropping his coat that he had picked up when he had been preparing to leave.

She looked up at him with those sparkling eyes he loved so much. “What do you want me to do?”

Harry couldn’t help but watch Malfoy’s hands as she wrote to Remus. The way her long fingers twirled the pen every now and again was almost as mesmerising as watching her play her guitar. Each word was carefully and precisely placed on the page; each loop immaculate and perfectly uniform. He could watch her like this all day, head bent over the paper, brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Over the past few weeks and months he really felt like he was starting to see the person she was under her armour of insults and haughtiness. Even if there was still the occasional slip.

His plan was to write to Remus. He didn’t know much about what had happened between him and Sirius, but if the Black family was anything like the Malfoy family, they were absolutely incapable of expressing emotion under pressure. Which meant that the most likely scenario leading to the breakdown in their friendship was that Sirius had been unable to tell Remus how much he meant to him, or, he had been too proud to ask for his help. Of course, most of this was conjecture on Harry’s part, but if he could just nudge the two of them back together again, maybe he’d be able to cure some of Sirius’ loneliness.

This was what he needed Malfoy for. Although he knew Remus and Sirius better than she – or he hoped he did – he knew full well his letters were almost as ineloquent as a toddler trying to say dada for the first time. With matters as intricate and delicate as this, a practised hand was more appropriate. Who better to compose a succinct and apt letter for the circumstances than Malfoy, who was literally trained in social etiquette despite the fact she ignored it ninety-nine percent of the time?

So that was how Harry ended up sitting upstairs in Luna’s house, in the guest bedroom which had become Malfoy’s, watching her write out a letter to a certain Remus Lupin. It was a relatively plain room with pale grey walls and blue bedding, but there were dreamcatchers hung up at the windows in a myriad of colours and there were piles of paperback books overflowing the shelves. Most of them looked read, but some were clearly brand new and stacked neatly in the corner. All muggle. Malfoy sat at a small desk with a sheet of writing paper and a fountain pen filled with dark blue ink. It took a good five minutes for Harry to get his brain wrapped around the concept of a Malfoy using a pen over a quill.

He was so caught up in watching her, he didn’t know where she was in the letter when she paused. She tapped the pen twice against the page and then let go of it, reaching up to her hair. Harry watched with fascination as she scooped her curls up in her hands and seamlessly twisted them onto the top of her head, a few loose waves falling down at the side of her face. The whole action took mere seconds, it clearly being a familiar and practised movement, but it left Harry stunned.

“I don’t quite know how to phrase this part,” she said to the paper. Harry was so convinced that she had forgotten he was there that he leant over to read what she had written so far, mostly to remind her she wasn’t talking to herself. At that exact moment, Malfoy turned her head towards him to seek his opinion. They were a hair’s breadth from clanging their foreheads together, but they managed to stop in time.

It was absolutely wrong. They’d only been getting along for one afternoon, and even then, it was begrudgingly on Malfoy’s side. But then he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her all day, nor had he been able to when he’d seen her at that open mic. He’d blamed it on her singing then, but she wasn’t singing now.

Her face was right there in front of his, her grey eyes boring into his own. His gaze flitted down to her lips, to the sweet cupid’s bow that was softer than any other feature, and back to her eyes again. Like before a curl fell across her face and he reached out to tuck it behind her ear. Except this time, he didn’t pull his hand away. It was in just the right place for him to cup the side of her face, and when he did, he found her cheek was impossibly soft, which seemed at total odds with the sharpness of her features but somehow also made perfect sense.

He ran his thumb slowly over her high cheekbone and his heart raced at a thousand miles an hour. She wasn’t even pulling away; she was just letting him. He felt like a giddy child being allowed ice cream for the first time. It was all taking too long. She was getting nervous. In the time he had been dawdling by marvelling at her, she’d started to bite her lip and it turned his insides to jelly.

His instincts told him this was now or never; he could not let this moment pass. He had always been told to trust his instincts, so he did, and he closed the small gap left between them.

Kissing Malfoy was nothing like kissing anyone else. It should have been fierce and energetic like they had always been with each other – competitive like they had always been. But it wasn’t. She tasted like the tea she had been drinking earlier, but there was an aura about her that reminded him of vanilla. Not the overly sweet kind that made your teeth rot, but something spicier. She let him take over, but she gave as good as she got. Before he knew it, his hands were in her hair, unravelling the bun she had wrapped it in and running his hands through those perfect curls he was so obsessed with.

It had started gentle, just the lightest brush of their lips, but it was quickly becoming something more. It felt like a wave had broken and was washing over the two of them, unleashing years of anger and resentment but also admiration and longing. So much longing. It’s possible Harry could have drowned in that kiss, if Malfoy hadn’t pulled away from him. The idea of what might happen next terrified him, but when she did pull away, she grinned at him with a smile so bright it could have blinded him, and he wouldn’t have cared one iota.

“Wasn’t I supposed to be doing something?”

“Maybe. But I think it can wait.”

At some point, sometime that day, she did go back to writing that letter. Instead of just staring at her, Harry even helped. But along with the signing of said letter, and the hatching of the plan to bring Remus and Sirius together, Potter became Harry and Malfoy became Lyra.


	9. Chapter 9

Thursday 27th May 1999

There was a storm raging. Streaks of brilliant white cracked across the sky making Draco’s room flare bright before being plunged into darkness again. Less than a second later its partner in crime boomed through the air, nearly making Draco’s teeth rattle in his gums. He had always hated thunderstorms, but this one was important.

Gritting his teeth, he flung the bedsheets off and got out of bed. The clock on his bedside table read just after five in the morning and he groaned miserably. This wasn’t an opportunity he could afford to miss however, so he dragged himself downstairs, wrapping a silk dressing gown around him as he went. He had kept most of his dressing gowns as his mother embroidered his name beneath the family crest herself and they always reminded him of her, but they provided little to no warmth, especially in the early hours of the morning when the air was bitterly cold.

The aspen trees were a long way from the Manor itself but having spent so long beneath them that is where he wanted to be when it finally happened. Covering himself in the best weatherproofing charms he could do with his wand dampened, he ran out into the pouring rain. The cold water pelted at his thin nightwear and although the fat droplets hurt as they made contact with his delicate skin, he was otherwise impervious.

The sky was a deep violet colour as the sunrise fought in vein to break through the howling storm. It took Draco nearly twenty minutes to reach the aspen trees as he battled against the force of the wind. Belatedly, he realised that it was foolish to stand beneath a copse of trees in a storm, but he wouldn’t turn back now.

When he reached the trees he stood very still, took a deep breath, and recited: “ _Amato Animo Animato Animagus._ ” This was the final step towards becoming an animagus. He had come so close to finding his animal form and this was finally it.

He waited. He didn’t know exactly what to expect. Would it be sudden? Slow? Painful? Euphoric?

A minute passed. Then five. Then ten. Once again, he recited “ _Amato Animo Animato Animagus_.” Nothing. Maybe he wasn’t saying it loud enough? He tried one more time. He screamed it so loudly and with such force that some of the birds hiding out in the depths of the trees flew away. But still nothing happened. The thunder continued to roll overhead.

Maybe he just wasn’t capable of becoming and animagus. He stood there in the middle of the storm for more than forty-five minutes hoping that something would happen. When it didn’t, he decided to go back to bed and salvage some sleep before the dawn came. He cold and empty inside. All these months under house arrest and the one productive thing he had done had come to nothing. What a waste.

To top it all off, he only made it halfway back to the Manor before his dampened protective charms failed. The rain quickly soaked through the silk and drenched his skin. Lightening continued to flash, and thunder continued to roar as he plodded miserably back to the Manor through lawns quickly turning to quagmires. Having used most of his wand’s power on the charms, he had to remove his clothes and dry off the muggle way. By the time he made it back to the warmth of his bed he was shivering uncontrollably. It was gone six in the morning by then, so he felt no guilt in calling one of the elves to light the fire in his room. It left him with little time to sleep, but he would take whatever he could get.

He tried valiantly not to wallow in his failure, but as the chill of the dark room sunk into his skin while he waited for the heat of the fire to permeate, he wasn’t able to hold back the tears collecting in his eyes.

His eyelids felt like sandpaper and his head pounded when he woke at seven thirty. It had been a stupid idea to run out into the storm like that right, but he had no way of knowing when the next storm would be. A wave of frustration came over him when he remembered he had probably given himself a fever for nothing. Had he said the incantation wrong? Had he mis-brewed the potion? Had he missed a step altogether?

He staggered across his room to shower and dress, all the while feeling like he’d taken a bludger to the head. He could have stayed in bed a while longer, but he was putting pressure on himself to check over everything they had put in place to go to the Ministry tomorrow. He couldn’t know that the one time he chose not to go over his notes would be the one time he missed something important.

Despite the mammoth task laid out before him, he couldn’t help but think of Potter. The way he had always been acutely aware of Potter’s presence in any room. The fact that they were the only seekers in the whole school who were any sort of match for each other, even if Draco had always lost in the end. He thought of the stupid way Potter hounded him all through sixth year while he was trying to fix that cabinet, and the even more stupid way that even though it had annoyed Draco, he had also loved being the centre of Potter’s attention. The era of seeing Potter every single day and trying to pretend like he despised the mere presence of him was over.

As he went downstairs he remembered what it was like to have Potter’s bright green gaze on him when they had breakfast in the Great Hall, to be on the receiving end of Potter’s arrogant wit, the feeling that had shot up his arm when they’d both reached for the snitch at the same time during a match; Potter’s fingers always inching just that bit closer than Draco’s.

It was wrong of him to have said nothing about Potter’s disappearance. He could see now, having worked for so long with Granger, that Potter left this kind of imprint on everyone he met. In the beginning it had been easy for Draco to tell himself that he was allowing Potter to chase the life he really wanted over the one he had, but that wasn’t true. What Draco was really doing was protecting himself from a life where he didn’t have to see Potter’s face and wonder how things might have been. From a life where the whole world had a small piece of Potter except him.

It would be far-fetched to say that Draco was in love with Potter. How could he be when he’d never even been on the receiving end of one of his smiles? Or known what it was like to deserve his kindness. But he knew he had the capacity to love Potter, if such a thing had ever been on the cards.

“There you are!” He jumped when he reached the bottom of the stairs, crossed the hallway, and almost ran directly into Pansy coming from the other direction. She was already dressed and had a full face of make up on – red lipstick included. He didn’t know how she did it so early in the day.

“What the fuck are you doing up so early?!” He exclaimed. She put her hands on her hips and huffed.

“ _Good morning_ , Pansy. How _are_ you my darling? Did you sleep well? It’s _so_ nice to see you looking so _fresh_ at this early hour…”

“Yes, yes, all of that.” He waved his hand, swatting the questions away like flies and turning towards the dining room. Not the one which had been repurposed for blood supremacism meetings, but the one just along from the grand piano parlour with the pretty view of his mother’s rose garden.

Despite feigning offense at Draco’s greeting, Pansy made no effort to answer her own questions, and when they sat down at the breakfast table, he saw she was not as well turned out as he thought. The harsh morning light highlighted the dark circles under her eyes that she’d valiantly tried to layer over with make-up. He didn’t know what he should say to her.

Breakfast had always been their time together, even though Pansy was a horror in the mornings. From their first day at school they had bonded over tea and toast and it had become a kind of ritual of sorts. Except this breakfast was very different.

“It will all be alright you know. Granger’s bloody brilliant.” He said to her after she drank three cups of tea and spent five minutes staring down at her plate without eating so much as a morsel.

“You don’t know that,” her voice was barely above a whisper, “where does it leave me?”

Draco frowned. “What do you mean?” It unnerved him seeing Pansy even vaguely emotional. She had always made a particular effort to keep her thoughts and feelings close to her chest. He used to dismiss this as a Slytherin trait, until he realised it was more a form of conditioning.

“I know you’re in love with him.”

Draco’s heart rate skyrocketed; he could hear it thumping in his ears. “What? No, it’s not like that. I-”

“See, you knew exactly what I meant, so it is like that. Do you really think you’d be doing any of this if you didn’t? You saved his live once already, most people would think that was more than enough. And what am I supposed to do? Flit about worrying about the wording of Astoria’s engagement in the papers, start organising wedding venues and flower arrangements while the two of you… what? What even are you two doing? Because you haven’t told me a thing!” He had forgotten all about Astoria.

Draco was floored. He had been so busy with Latin translations and planning with Granger that he hadn’t factored Pansy into the equation. Throughout school he had been contented with the fact that Pansy was far from academic. Their friendship was built on Pansy’s love of Draco’s piano playing and Draco’s reliance on Pansy’s unwavering ability to give him better advice than anyone. It hadn’t occurred to him that she was watching her best friend risk a spell in Azkaban and her girlfriend put her career on the line for a man she didn’t particular like and certainly didn’t miss. He had been heartless.

“I’m sorry, Pansy. I didn’t think. Well, I did, but I thought you would have discussed this with Granger…”

Pansy poured her fourth cup of tea with shaking hands. She laughed bitterly as she did so. “Of course I haven’t discussed it with Hermione, what is there to say? If it was you, no force on earth would keep me from going after you. We stand by our own.” He would freely admit that when he had first found out about Pansy’s relationship, he was dubious. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out what pulled the two of them together. But now, now he saw the dedication in her. Even though it was killing her to sit by and watch, she knew Granger needed this. It broke his heart.

“Then you know why I have to do this,” he said gently.

She slammed her teacup down and he heard the clink of a hairline crack forming in the china. Luckily it wasn’t the antique set.

“No! No I don’t know why. He’s not _your_ best friend! You might be in love with him but he sure as hell doesn’t love you!” Her words sliced through him his Aunt Bella’s dagger. He knew she was lashing out because she was scared, but he could feel his own anger surging upwards from where he’d been keeping it locked away while he focused on everything else.

“And you’d prefer it if I let her go on her own, would you? You’d like me to let your girlfriend steal evidence, break into the highest security level of the Ministry, try a spell no one has heard of or used in at least three hundred years, and do absolutely nothing to help her when my own selfishness got us here in the first place? All for a man you don’t like and nearly sold out to- to- _Voldemort._ ” His breath was ragged after his tirade, and Pansy sat staring at him with her mouth hanging open. It was perhaps an overreaction, but he had put far too much into this plan to throw it all away now, not just for himself but for Granger and Potter too.

“Well… no. Of course not…” The air stilled around them. They had come to a stalemate. It killed Draco to think that if something were to go wrong – if the spell did more damage than good or, heaven forbid one of them got pulled through the Veil by mistake – she would be the one left behind. But what more could he do? He couldn’t, in all consciousness, do nothing.

“Morning! So, I thought that after we’d checked on the Polyjuice we could- oh, I’ve interrupted something, haven’t I?” Granger walked into the room carrying a stack of books with her nose buried in the topmost volume when she registered the tension in the room. She glanced between Draco and Pansy as if she could figure it out just by looking at them.

Draco wasn’t going to be the one to explain.

“Nothing!” Pansy said too brightly, “we were just discussing… how pretty the roses are!” She pointed to the side of the window completely opposite to the rose garden.

“The roses. The yellow roses you said just last week were the worst kind of roses because yellow flowers are what you take your sick grandma in hospital.” Granger looked to Draco for help, but he refused to get involved. He’d barely had any sleep and now wasn’t the time for arguments.

“I’m going to the lab,” he muttered, allowing his chair to scrape across the floor as he stood. Let them talk it out between themselves.

His head felt woozy as he wandered down to his lab. Mercifully, it was at the opposite side of the dungeons to the old torture cells, or he might never have brewed a potion again in his life. At least he had time to recover his sleep before he actually had to go through with the plan. It almost worried him that he was so calm about it when the entire course of his life depended on what happened when they got to the Ministry.

Maybe he shouldn’t think like that or he wouldn’t stay so calm.

He had to pause for a minute while the faint spell passed. Out in the corridor he could still hear their voices, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. It wasn’t even easy to tell what tone they were taking, but he sincerely hoped that the two women could get past this. After all, it could all go exactly according to plan.

Draco had wanted to be able to transform before going ahead with their plan to bring Potter back. That’s why he had forced himself out of bed and into the middle of the storm. He had imagined that he could leave the Manor and enter the Ministry relatively safely as his animagus, particularly since he would be unregistered. However, when he had suggested this to Granger, she had made the valid point that:

“Unless you can transform into a cat or an owl, you’re going to be conspicuous walking through the Ministry, even if you do manage to keep to the shadows.”

So, he had spent the last month brewing a batch of Polyjuice Potion instead. It was right where he left it under stasis. It was missing the hair Granger promised to provide, but he wouldn’t need that until tomorrow. The potion had finished brewing yesterday and he had neglected clearing up after himself which he did so now as a distraction.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t see things from Pansy’s perspective, because he could now, but if he didn’t help Granger do this she would only try and pull it off without him. As it happened, he was pretty useless in most aspects of the plan since he couldn’t leave the Manor grounds, although he had now perfected the spell that would allow him to do just that.

When he made it down to the dungeon, he spent nearly ten minutes stirring the potion and clearing up his work surface. He’d accidently left the boomslang skin out and it had turned black, but he didn’t think he’d be needing any more of it anytime soon. Just when he was running out of things to do to kill time, Granger appeared. She placed two small jars with tightly coiled hair packed inside on the workbench.

“Whose?” He asked. Her face was stony, and it was obvious that her conversation with Pansy hadn’t gone well.

“Muggle. Picked them up from a hairdresser’s in Hampstead.”

“Muggle? You want me to break into the Ministry for Magic while Polyjuiced as a _muggle_?”

She gave him a long look as if it wasn’t a big deal. “That way you can’t possibly accidently bump into yourself and no one can question if you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.” She shrugged.

“But surely they’re still checking ID? Can we even still perform magic if we’re muggles?” Draco didn’t like this idea much, but Granger didn’t seem perturbed.

“I thought about that.” She took two slips of paper out of her pocket and handed them to Draco. They were two Ministry ID slips belonging to Jo March and Atticus Finch.

“Really Granger? And you think my animagus would be conspicuous?” He raised his eyebrows at her, and she had the decency to look embarrassed. She was lucky that she only blushed lightly, unlike Weasley whose entire head turned tomato red.

“I panicked! Creativity isn’t my forte…” At least she could pronounce forte the proper way.

“They’ll have to do,” he sighed, and handed the two slips back to her. “Wouldn’t you rather be a Meg March?”

She punched him in the arm as an answer.

“The only way I could assuage Pansy was to promise her we’d go through the plan together.” She said after a beat of silence.

Draco was suitably surprised. “She really wants to know? She hates that kind of thing.”

“I know, but I think it’s the not knowing that’s upsetting her the most. It’s one thing to let us go without her, it’s another that we can’t even tell her why we’re going or how long we might be gone.” He could absolutely see her point.

Draco wanted to wait until the mood had lifted somewhat before wading into the thick of the plan with Pansy. So, he went back to his library to research what might have gone wrong with his animagus spell. He had always known that it was complex magic – that was why so few witches and wizards ever managed to successfully transform – but he had really thought he was in with a chance. He’d felt how willing his body had been to shift for crying out loud!

He took the book out into the gardens where he flicked through the pages like a checklist. The ground was still sodden, from the storm but the sun was finally breaking through the clouds. As he walked, he checked each item off. He’d done holding the leaf in his mouth, he’d done the recitations sunrise and sunset, he’d drank the potion, he’d waited for a storm, he’d done the final incantation. There wasn’t a single step in the list he’d missed.

Snapping the book shut and throwing it away in a fit of anger, Draco decided to walk the grounds. He was anxious for tomorrow and stir crazy looking at the rows upon rows of books all day; he needed to expend some energy.

Walking in the opposite direction of the apsen trees, he passed the rock garden and the orchard. The apple trees were far from bearing fruit at this time of year, which was disappointing, so he strode on past them. He came to an old shed structure he couldn’t remember the purpose of until he kicked open the stuck bolt.

Inside was a collection of old brooms. His father had never had much of a knack for quidditch, so all Draco knew had been taught by his mother. He hadn’t realised her brooms had been left out here to the elements and he could see many of the twigs had snapped and a couple of the handles and thawed and split. His own broom, however, being the youngest, looked in serviceable condition.

When he kicked off the ground and the breeze blew through his hair, he didn’t give a fuck whether this was within his house arrest restrictions or not. Being careful to stay within the boundaries of the wards, he flew higher and higher until all he could see was the Manor roof and the sprawling fields around it. The high hedges that framed the edges of the grounds looked comical from up here – who did they think they were stopping from seeing in? There were no neighbours for miles.

He imagined Potter flying besides him, the breeze making his wild black hair look even more ridiculous. His glasses would slide down his nose and he would waver slightly left each time he pushed them back up with his forefinger. Draco remembered all of this. He had memorised Potter’s every move on a broom from the very first time he had seen him fly – when he’d had Longbottom’s stupid Remembrall clasped tightly in his hand. What a little shit he had been back then.

Draco and his imagined Potter looped and twirled through the air, chasing an equally as untouchable snitch. This time Draco would get there first, of course. For a little while Draco allowed himself to think that one day maybe they really would come up here. That Potter would really want to spent time with him, that they would have fun, that they could be free. He had paid no attention to how long he had flown over trees and flowers and the small spring that curled through the south lawn, but eventually he tired. He didn’t get out much anymore.

By mid-afternoon, his broom brought into the house and placed in the corner of his bedroom ready to be serviced, he forced himself to focus on the task in hand. He therefore found himself seated at his research desk next to Granger and opposite Pansy. He hadn’t asked what had been said between the two of them while he had been in the lab, but whatever it was it seemed to have taken a toll on Pansy. Possibly no one else would have noticed, but Draco had been Pansy’s closest friend since they were four years old, and he could see the tiny make-up smudge under her eye she would never usually let slip, and the slight trembled of her lip she fought to control. She had obviously already cried this morning, and that was not what he wanted for his best friend.

He was also mildly annoyed that Granger hadn’t sat on Pansy’s side of the table. It was a subtle thing, but now wasn’t the time to draw sides.

“I want to know everything,” Pansy said calmly, her hands with her perfectly manicured nails resting neatly on the table.

“Pans,” he leant forward and rested his elbows on the desk, something his father would have hexed him for, “you realise anything we tell you puts you at risk?”

“Then don’t get caught.” She said bluntly, as if it was as plain as the nose on her face. Draco looked to Granger, but she didn’t react.

So, it was Draco who began the explanation. He told Pansy of their plan to go into the heart of the Department of Mysteries, where once Granger had been in search of the prophecy his father tried to obtain, to the Veil. First thing tomorrow morning, Granger would go to the Ministry and retrieve Potter’s wand from the evidence lockers, on which part of the spell they had found would be cast.

He would then meet her, and she would take him to the DoM where they would try to turn him into an anchor for Potter on the other side of the Veil. An anchor which, if everything went to plan, would give Potter a way to come back out of the Veil and home to them.

Most of the theory behind the spell, including the hours he tirelessly worked to perfect his translation, he omitted from his explanation. It took longer than he expected to get through it all, especially with little input from Granger who, for once in her life, was pensive and quiet.

There was a pause after he’d finished, and he watched Pansy slowly absorb the information he’d overloaded her with.

“I have questions.”

Draco looked sideways at Granger who shook her head as if trying to wake herself up. “Okay… go for it,” she said warily.

“First question.” Pansy turned her sharp eyes on Draco. “If something happens to Hermione, what are you going to do with your magic restrictions.” Her stare was piercing, and Draco swallowed thickly.

“That’s not going to happen. Granger is a highly capable witch and-”

“But if it does.”

“Then Draco will get himself out and the two of you will find a way to come back for me later.” Granger reached across the table and laid a hand over Pansy’s. It was testament to how difficult this was that Pansy didn’t move a muscle, but Granger didn’t take her hand back. The tension in the room could have been cut with a severing spell.

“Second question.” Pansy seemed to be conducting the exchange as if this was a business negotiation. As far as Draco was concerned, there were no negotiations to be had. It was this way or no way at all. “Suppose Potter does come back. How are you going to get him out of the Ministry without creating a furore and incriminating yourselves?” Also a good question.

“Would you pass me my bag? It’s on the back of your chair.” Granger released Pansy’s hand to let her retrieve a small beaded bag. It went everywhere with Granger although Draco had never asked her what was in it. She stuck her hand in up to the elbow and Draco realised it was imbued with a sizing charm. Very clever. After a few seconds of rummaging and the occasional crash of things being knocked over, Granger pulled out a thin, shimmering length of fabric that Draco recognised instantly.

“This is Harry’s invisibility cloak. I took it from his house before the Ministry did their search. They’re very rare and I know for a fact Robards – he’s Head Auror – has been trying to get his hands on it for years. We’ll cover Harry in it to get him out. Even without it, he’s a professional sneak.” There was a wistful smile on her face and it pained Draco that all those headlines he had read about what had happened to Potter never once mentioned the people who really know him, who were truly hurt by his disappearance, not just the adoring fans who missed his charming smile and his outrageous hair.

“You really thought this through.” It wasn’t framed as a question, but Granger nodded anyway. He had to admit, she had prepared for a lot more eventualities than he had, although perhaps she didn’t view herself as so disposable.

It was then that he realised that he hadn’t seen his friends since the day he had come back from the Ministry. There had been no word from Blaise or Theo or Greg. Maybe Pansy had kept them informed on his behalf, but then she had been so preoccupied by Granger…

“Have you told the Weasleys about all of this?” It was a tricky situation. How much could they feasibly say? Granger flushed slightly.

“I told Ron. It’ll take at least a week for the news to get to Romania, by which point all will have been done and there’ll be nothing he can do about it.” Granger was sort of terrifying. Both he and Pansy stared at her – Draco feeling vaguely impressed but Pansy looking terrified.

“Oh don’t be like that,” she snapped, “he would do the same and if he tries to say otherwise he’s lying.” Right there and then Draco had a brainwave.

“Why didn’t you ask Weasley to do this? Wasn’t he Potter’s something valuable back in fourth year?” Draco has a vague memory of flame red hair bobbing up to the surface of the Great Lake.

“You mean, you haven’t thought about this already? Are you serious? You’re supposed to be doing all of this _tomorrow_ , and you’re just _now_ considering the alternatives? Am I the _only_ person who’s approaching this plan with any kind of rationality?” Pansy’s eyes were wide with disbelief and he hated to acknowledge that she had a point. He had been so focused on making amends and finding Potter that it hadn’t even occurred to him that there was any other way.

“I cannot believe you two.” Pansy got up and stormed off and Draco seriously began to question whether they had got it all wrong. All Pansy had ever done was be a good friend to Draco. Many people wouldn’t see it that way, but that was only because they knew the person she projected, not the person she really was.

“I’ll deal with her,” Granger said, getting up to follow. Draco caught her wrist gently.

“Give her some space, this is hard on her.”

She sighed and shook her head. “It’s hard on me too. I miss him.”

“She knows that. And she also knows that if something happens to you, that will be her too.” Granger pursed her lips as if she hadn’t considered that before.

“Do you think we’re doing the right thing? You know they’ve given up looking.” Her words came as a punch to his stomach. He had pinned all sense of morality on Granger being the better person of the two of them, but over the course of the past month he had discovered just how far she was willing to go.

“I think we’re doing the only thing we can do.”

She nodded and he let her go.

That evening, just before they went to bed, Draco added the hair Granger had supplied to the Polyjuice. It fizzed and spluttered, his turning a murky green and Granger’s turning a reddish brown. Polyjuice wasn’t meant to work so well with muggles, that much was obvious.

Just as he returned the ground floor and turned towards the West Wing, Granger appeared wearing nothing but a huge quidditch jersey that fell nearly to her knees. It took him a minute to realise it was Potter’s old house jersey. He could hardly see her in the darkness, but he could just make out that she was barefoot, and her hair was loosely thrown up in a tangle of curls and frizz. It looked as if she had already gone to bed and then thought better of it.

“Do you think we’re ready?” She whispered through the dark as if someone might hear. He hadn’t taken Granger for one susceptible to last minute nerves.

“As ready as we can be,” he replied, her whispering contagious.

“I just wanted to say, in case I don’t get the chance tomorrow, that I know I sort of forced you to do this, but I really am grateful.” Sweet lord, Granger was getting sentimental on him.

“I don’t need your gratitude, Granger. I’m not doing this for you.” Despite being able to make out her outline, her expressions were too marred by shadow to be decipherable.

“Well, you have it all the same. Thank you, Draco.” And she turned on her heel and walked in the opposite direction. He stood there in the cold and the dark for a while, his head clouded with everything he needed to remember tomorrow, but also feeling full of an emotion he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He wouldn’t exactly call Granger his friend, not with their current quid pro quo relationship, but somehow it still mattered to him that she was being nice. Even if he claimed otherwise.

He only hoped it wouldn’t all be for nothing.


	10. Chapter 10

Friday 28th May 1999

Draco’s head felt like a firecracker ready to explode when he woke up the following morning. As soon as he stirred and turned over, he sneezed with such force he was nearly sick. He’d always had a knack for coming down with a cold at the most inopportune moments – a piano recital, exam week, Christmas Day, you name it. Served him right for standing outside in the middle of a storm.

There were clothes already laid out for him which was unusual since the elves knew he preferred to dress himself. There was a tweed blazer with leather patches over the elbows, threadbare corduroy trousers in an odd shade of tan, and brown leather loafers scuffed down the sides. It was about as opposite from Draco’s tastes as could be, but this would make sense if he was to be looking like a muggle.

“You look like shit,” Pansy remarked when she saw him for the first time that morning. Her gaze flicked up and down him as she took in his strange new apparel.

“You don’t look so fresh either,” he shot right back, referring to the kink in her hair and the bags under her eyes. If there was one thing their relationship suffered from, it was that they were both inclined to insult when stressed.

Pansy was particularly clingy that morning. She hung off Granger’s arm as well as every word she said. She stole kisses and kept tight hold of Granger’s hand. She laughed too loudly at attempts at jokes that weren’t really funny. It was difficult for Draco to see her so worried, but at the same time he thought it was sweet seeing them together like that. It made him ache with an understanding that he had little potential for romance being stuck in the Manor as he was. What kind of life would he ever lead if he couldn’t even walk down the street like a normal human being? And yet instead of being a model citizen, he was about to start actually breaking the law instead of just being suspected of it.

But he pushed these thoughts to one side as he focused on preparing for the long day ahead. First chance he got, he went down to the potion lab and grabbed a handful of Pepperups to put in pocket-sized vials for later. Pepperup was one of the few potions he could brew easily as none of the ingredients were restricted.

“Ok, we need to set out the specifics before I go.” Granger said to him when he returned from the lab. “I think it’ll take me about an hour to get up to the DMLE, get access to the evidence lockers, and get back out again. In that time, you need to get yourself out of the Manor and meet me in the supply cupboard off the Atrium and avoid passing the security office. You _are_ sure you can get out of here, aren’t you? I will not have you mess this up for me any more than you already have.” There was a steely look in her eye much like the one she’d had when they’d been in that interview room together.

“Yes, I can do that. I’m not an idiot.” He snapped. He didn’t actually know for sure that his plan for escape would work – he was making an educated guess based on his existing knowledge of property magic.

“And you _won’t_ forget to take your Polyjuice before you leave. I don’t need you popping up in the Ministry like a human lumos.” Was that a dig at his hair?

“For fuck sake, Granger! What do you take me for?!” He slammed his hand down on the piano, making the strings beneath vibrate in an eerie drone. They, all three of them, were sat in the parlour. Draco had been running up and down every arpeggio he had ever learned to keep his hands from shaking. He sneezed, his head pounding twice before settling again.

“You’re not well, Draco.”

He couldn’t look at her. “That doesn’t matter. We’re doing this and we’re doing it today. Like we planned.” She watched him for a long while and he expected her to argue but she didn’t.

“Mysteries is one floor down from the Atrium and one floor up from the courtrooms,” she said as if nothing happened. “It’ll be better if we take the stairs. There’ll be fewer people around to take notice.” He nodded, not lifting his eyes from the keys even though he had ceased playing.

Pansy came to sit on the piano stool with him. Usually he hated it when she did that but today, he didn’t have the heart to turf her out. “Draco, before you go, would you play for me…?” She rested her chin on his shoulder and looked up at him with puppy eyes.

“Pans, you know I love you, but we’re only going to the Ministry. I’m not setting sail for Antarctica.”

She feigned offence. “Well, you might as well be. Please?”

“Fine.” Better to play the piano and make Pansy happy than sit around and get more wound up.

Granger watched the two of them as if she wasn’t supposed to be there. He thought about whether she had begun to like him, or whether she had only been putting up with him for the sake of Pansy and the chance to sort this mess out with Potter. She had stayed in the Manor on a number of occasions whilst they’d been planning, but of course Pansy’s guest rooms were at the opposite side of the house from his. And then there was that strange moment the night before when she had thanked him…

His mind drifted as he played Pansy’s favourite Chopin piece. He wondered if Potter liked piano music, if he’d even heard of Chopin, if one day Draco might play for him instead.

“I had better go,” Granger said hesitantly as his fingers landed on the last chord. Any atmosphere built by the ebb and flow of the piece evaporated in an instant. Pansy’s chin left Draco’s shoulder and in a blink of any eye she had flung her arms around Granger’s neck and was kissing her fervently.

Draco didn’t quite know where to look for the best, so he stuck with staring down at the keys, letting the final chord wane to nothing.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Pansy grinned at Granger in a maniacal way that had Granger looking at Draco with a worried expression.

“You mean… do whatever I want and sod the consequences?” The way Granger scrunched up her face in confusion made Draco laugh, which in turn made his head pound again. It was going to be a very long day.

“Pretty much.”

It was strange not seeing Granger go. She would have to go beyond the property boundary to apparate to the employee entrance of the Ministry since they didn’t want to be traced directly to the Manor. Years ago, the unplottable nature of the Manor would have negated this, but since the floo was now regulated under his house arrest restrictions, they were having to make do. Pansy went with Granger, but Draco stayed behind.

He also didn’t want to be a voyeur of that particular departure; he knew how difficult Pansy could make things.

Before she stepped out of the front door, Draco memorised the clothes Granger wore so that he would be able to find her again. They’re nothing like what he is used to seeing her wear when going to the Ministry. The bright red of her law firm has been replaced by a dowdy yellow; the sort of yellow that was once white but had been too damaged by the sun. They were an old style, too broad across her shoulders and hips and pulled in tight around her waist. It made her look waspish and older than she was.

Turning back into the house when they had disappeared down the driveway, Draco forced himself to focus. The first hurdle he would have to overcome was getting out of the Manor without tripping the wards. He had wanted to test the strength of them ever since the beginning of his house arrest, but there hadn’t been a reason worthy enough of risking it until now. He had waited until Granger had gone, however, since he knew she would not approve of his methods.

The Ministry had set up a tracking spell which was layered over the existing wards. It was linked to his magical signature and would directly alert the Aurors if he were to leave the premises without Ministry approval. To avoid tripping the tracker he would have to create a false signature inside the Manor and mask himself when he passed through. Polyjuice would prevent him from being noticed, but it wouldn’t strip his magic.

As soon as Granger had gone, he bolted up to the top floor. He stopped on the way to grab a small silver dagger his father pretended was a letter opener from his desk drawer. There would only be one chance for him to get this right and he couldn’t afford to waste time.

The wards emanate from the house itself where the magic is strongest. Up in the eaves it’s easiest for him to get at the basic structure of the Manor where centuries of magical enchantments are layered over themselves.

Here he sat and tried to pick apart the wards. He needed to temporarily transfer some of his magic to the house so that it would look as though he was still there. The threads of magic were unbelievably tangled, and it took him a long time to isolate and snap the thread he had been trying to find. This should have been something he tackled during his house arrest, but he really hadn’t thought it would be so bad.

Checking his watch, he realised Granger had already been gone for forty-five minutes and he was running out of time. He took out the silver ‘letter opener’ and took a deep breath before slicing across his left palm. He held the cut hand over the snapped thread of ward and allowed his blood to drop directly onto the raw magic. Around him he could feel the house shiver. The walls quivered and the windows rattled and if he wasn’t much mistaken, the room brightened. He wondered whether the increasing darkness and chill in the house was actually a product of neglect. Merlin knew his father wandered the hallways with such entitlement it probably never occurred to him how much maintenance and care the place needed.

Out of interest, he pressed his hand fully to the bare wood of the ceiling beams. The effect was intense. It was as if he could feel the life of the building run right through him. He felt supercharged, like he’d just woken up from the most refreshing sleep he’d had in his life. When he took his hand away the wound was completely healed over like it had never been there before. He wanted to stay there and marvel at what he had just discovered, but he knew his window for escape was small and he didn’t want to take any chances.

He needed to get back downstairs as it was already approaching the hour mark and he needed to take the Polyjuice and more Pepper-up before he left.

“Pansy!” He called as he raced through the Manor. He needn’t have shouted so loud as she was exactly where he had left her in the parlour. The only difference was that she was now curled in a chair with an old copy of Witch Weekly. On the cover was Potter, straddling a broomstick with a determined look on his face, and gazing into the distance after an imaginary snitch.

“What just happened?”

“Nothing, I was just working on the wards. No time to explain. I really need to go now, ok? You’ll be alright here?” It was a stupid question because nothing was going to stop him leaving, but she nodded anyway.

He picked up the vial of Polyjuice he had left on the table and trying not to think about the colour, downed it in one. Despite the number of times he had brewed it, he had never actually drunk it. It tasted like burnt caramel. A burning sensation radiated out from his stomach towards his fingers and toes as if he’d just swallowed acid. He fell to his hands and knees as his skin bubbled and shifted. His hands thickened in front of his face; his fingers shorter and hairier. His centre of gravity shifted – this muggle must have been a good few inches shorter than him. Presumably less conspicuous because of it.

As quickly as it had started, it stopped again.

He turned to Pansy to wait for her judgement. She stood gawping in front of him. “Well…” She paused as if she couldn’t find the right words. “No one’s going to suspect it’s you anyway.” With Pansy being no real help, he strode over to the nearest mirror and got a shock.

His entire face was soft. Rounded jaw, button nose, wide eyes, soft brow. His hair was now a dirty blond and his eyes were hazel. It was difficult to tell but he estimated he was about three inches shorter, the inches added to his shoulders and waist. This muggle wasn’t particularly bad looking, but he certainly wasn’t Draco.

“Maybe you should invite someone over while we’re gone? Keep you occupied?” He asked, turning back to Pansy. He didn’t have too much time to dwell on his temporary appearance.

“Don’t you remember how much paperwork we had to fill out to allow me to move in? They only let Granger pass because they thought there was no way in hell she’d ever go against them. She’s still one of the golden ones.” Draco wasn’t quite so sure about that anymore; he was starting to see just how determined Granger was.

“Please be careful. If you come back dead, I’ll bring you back to life just so I can kill you in a far more brutal and prolonged way.” The stone-cold seriousness in her tone and the blank expression on her face had him genuinely worried she might.

“Don’t worry, I have no plans to die without your permission.” He tried to smile but he could tell it looked too forced. He kissed Pansy on both cheeks and gave her a hug, none of which she complained about, before dashing over to the fireplace and praying he wasn’t going to be late and mess up the whole plan.

He held his breath as he passed through the Manor wards. Even with all the precautions he had made, he still expected blaring alarms and restraints to shoot out at him when he tried to leave. When nothing happened, he still couldn’t totally relax, still half expecting a delayed reaction. Perhaps he should have had more faith in his magical ability.

The Ministry was the same as ever when he arrived. The wizard who checked his fake ID slip barely even glanced at him before letting him through without question. That was especially worrying considering how soon out of the war they were – he would have expected security measures to be much more stringent than that. It was almost too easy.

The security office was next to the lifts and had a view over the entire Atrium. Draco walked as confidently as he possibly could to give the impression that he was absolutely supposed to be there and knew exactly what he was doing. From a young age he had discovered this was the best policy in most situations. It was strange to be able to walk here without people stopping and staring or hurling insults at him, but he also couldn’t afford to let his guard down. Scanning the edges of the Atrium he noticed a narrow door built to blend into the wall which he suspected was the supply cupboard. He slotted in behind a gaggle of witches who were discussing the advantages of using pens over quills and slipped through the door as fast as lightening.

Granger was already there waiting for him.

“Did you get it?” He whispered when the door had barely closed behind him. The cupboard barely had enough space for both of them and contained nothing but a supply of self-correcting ink and a few bags of out of date owl treats. It was apparent the cupboard had long been forgotten. From inside her robes, Granger pulled a dark coloured wand. Draco vaguely recognised it, but he had never been this close to Potter’s wand before and it surprised him how ordinary it seemed.

“Easy peasy!” Granger said with a grin. She handed the wand to Draco as if he would know whether this was Potter’s wand or not. It was immaculate despite the fact that it had been in an evidence locker supposedly collecting dust for eight months.

He was about to give the wand back when he realised something was off. “Hang on… you still look like you!” He was filled with panic that her Polyjuice had worn off without her noticing, thereby quashing their rescue mission before they’d even started.

“Oh. Yes, well. I have a special relationship with the DMLE – they rarely say no to me.”

“What? They just let you walk in and take Potter’s wand?!”

“Of course not.” Granger shifted her weight from foot to foot looking sheepish. “They think I took a wand belonging to a Penny Weston who went missing twenty years ago. They have an awful backlog up in evidence.”

Draco’s mouth fell open. “So you lied?! What the fuck, Granger. How am I the one trying to keep this as legal as possible? You could have told me! That’s going to look suspicious as fuck! Potter’s wand just _happens_ to go missing when his best friend has been in requesting a wand? What were you thinking?”

“Draco, you’re standing in a supply cupboard Polyjuiced as a muggle so that you can break into the Department of Mysteries. There’s nothing legal about this. Besides, I was thinking if this works it won’t matter what I said or did. We can stand here arguing about it all day, or we can get to that Veil before the Polyjuice wears off.”

Draco sighed. “Actually Granger, I brought second dosages because I am, in fact, not a total moron.”

Her face lit up with excitement. “Yes! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” Draco wanted to say it was because she wasn’t the only one with a brain, but now wasn’t the time to start an argument and she had done a lot of the hard work so far.

She took her first dose and he watched as she turned into a tall middle-aged woman with willowy limbs and sleek blonde hair. It was weird for Granger to be taller than him – he didn’t like it. He poked his head out of the door and waited for a crowd of people to pass so it wouldn’t look like they’d just appeared out of thin air.

They hurried to the staircase, not sparing time to chatter and descended to basement level nine. They only passed one other person in the stairwell, a squat wizard with a balding head and thick jam jar glasses. It looked as if he was concentrating hard on putting one foot in front of the other and didn’t look up as they passed.

Level nine was one of the gloomiest places Draco had ever seen, and that really was saying something. The stairs brought them out into a large circular room that was decorated floor to ceiling in black. There were doors set at regular intervals around the room, lit only by small blue flames.

“Which door is it?” He hissed in Granger’s ear. She was looking ahead with a frown on her face. It worried him because he had been reliant on her knowing her way around. And then came the rumble. Granger had obviously waited for this to happen, but she hadn’t warned Draco. They stood in the middle of the room as the doors around the edges started to rotate into new positions. It was impossible to tell which door they’d entered through and therefore would get back out of.

“Failsafe,” Granger said in a low voice, “stops you getting out once you’re in. There’s no way of knowing which door will be the right one, but I’ll know it when I see it.” Draco’s stomach plummeted to the floor. He had imagined this would be much easier than this.

The doors rotated two or three times, or at least, that’s as high as he managed to count before he got confused. “Well, what now?”

“We just have to open the doors until we find the right one,” she said. She stepped forward and opened the door dead ahead of them. There was a glowing red light inside and what looked like hundreds of tiny yellow eyes staring at them. She shut the door again quickly. Draco tried the door to his left and only opened it a crack before he realised it was full of large water tanks with wiggling tentacles in it. Whatever they were, he wasn’t about to find out.

It was the fifth door they tried that made Granger halt. There wasn’t anything immediately obvious about it, but when he opened his mouth to ask her if this was the right one, she held up a hand to silence him. And then he heard whispers coming from inside. It was a long rectangular room which was very dimly lit with what looked like a large pit sunken in the middle.

Just then they heard echoing footsteps behind them. He turned to see a wizard with a long beard and pointed ears strolling towards the door with his robes billowing out behind him. Before he could move Granger was shoving him face first through the door and into the narrow room beyond.

“Move!” She shouted urgently and they took off down the corridor. Draco didn’t think the man had seen them, but he guessed that Granger wasn’t taking any chances. It was much harder to run as the muggle because his legs were rather short compared to Granger’s long ones. He took to following the flapping of her dusty yellow robes which were all he could see in the dim light. They twisted and turned through what felt like hundreds of rooms that all looked the same as the last to him, until suddenly it opened out into a cavernous space.

He rested his arm against the wall as he got his breath back. The room was tiered to the bottom like a courtroom, but it was devoid of most of the benches. In a way it was like a gloomy, damp, British equivalent of the inside of the Colosseum. Except, in the centre of the room where a defendant would usually stand, there was a large rock on which was mounted a stone archway. The whispering they had heard when they opened the door was loudest here, and now he realised what it was.

He shivered.

“Ok, we might not have a lot of time, so we’d best get on with it.” Granger took off down the steps towards the arch and Draco couldn’t tell if she was totally unconcerned with the strange feeling in the room, or if she was feigning confidence for her own sake. He ran after her and when he reached the Veil, the whispering hummed in his ears like a swarm of bees, making his head soupy. It was difficult to think – or maybe his Pepperup was wearing off.

“So, do we cast on the wand first, or me?” He asked, trying to keep his focus on the reason they were here.

Granger pondered this for a second before turning her gaze away from the Veil. “I say the wand. There’ll be no point trying it on you if the magic doesn’t take to the wand.” Draco nodded, trying to ignore the feeling that he was being submerged in water. He really didn’t like it down here.

The wand was placed on the ground between them at a safe distance. “So that the two separate parts of the spell don’t interact with each other.” Granger clarified. Draco stepped forward and cleared his throat, praying that his Latin translation was close enough.

“hoc caduceo, iunctionem creo.” The wand lifted into the air and twirled with a sea of purple sparks before landing back down on the ground before them. He looked anxiously to Granger. She shrugged and it didn’t instil him with confidence.

“It did something at least. Are you ready?” She stepped in front of him and suddenly he felt terrified. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Granger, except… well, he didn’t trust her at all. The wild notion entered his head that this whole thing could have been an elaborate hoax to lure him into the Ministry, breaking his house arrest, just so she could see him locked up. It would be the ultimate revenge. Granger wouldn’t be that vindictive… would she?

Before Draco had time to say anything, Granger was pointing her wand at him, “hoc homine, ancoram creo.” A strange fizzing sensation ran through him from head to toe, as if his entire body had developed short-term pins and needles. It came and went in a blink of an eye and then there was nothing. It was disappointing.

“How do you feel?” Granger asked him anxiously. She was an inch shorter than before, and he could see that the Polyjuice was starting to wear off, which meant he was already well on his way to being his normal self again. He was glad he had brought extra.

“Um, the same.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all? No… I don’t know, pulling sensation? What happens when you touch the wand?” Draco reached out and picked up Potter’s wand. A flare of warmth shot up his hand, but it didn’t go beyond his wrist. It was the same kind of feeling he had when he picked up his own wand.

“Maybe something,” he said uncertainly, “but there’s still the last part.” He couldn’t stand the anguish written all over her. He wanted this to go perfectly but the chances were so small he had tried hard not to get his hopes up – he wondered if Granger had bothered doing the same…

The last part of the spell required Draco to be holding the wand. So far, they had created the bond between Draco and the wand, but now they had to give that connection a purpose. He stood very still; Potter’s wand clutched tightly in his hand. “uni mortuum referent.”

The entire room blazed like a solar flare. Draco screwed his eyes tightly shut for fear that his eyeballs would melt right out of his head. The whisperings from the Veil rose like a cacophony of sound and yet he still couldn’t make out what they were saying. He couldn’t see Granger even though he knew she was right in front of him. As the flare of light reduced, Draco realised it was emanating from him towards the Veil. This could be it, the moment they had been waiting for. Any second now Potter would walk right out of the Veil and he’d smile and say, “was I gone long?”

But then the ground began to shake. The beam of light flickered and faded, and Draco’s hopes went out with it. Dust fell from above them, and Draco grabbed hold of Granger as she wobbled and almost fell.

“I suppose it was a long shot.” She shouted right in his ear as the room rumbled around them. If it were to collapse, they would never make it out in time. He couldn’t find it in him to respond, he could only cling to her and wait for the shaking to stop.

It didn’t take too long. One of the long benches around the edge of the room cracked, one side sinking down into the row below, but the room stayed standing. As did the Veil.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” he said when he was confident things had settled.

“You were expecting Potter to step right out of that Veil and ask you if he’d missed anything.” She said without looking at him.

“How do you know?”

“Because that was what I was expecting too.” There might have been a moment between the two of them if it wasn’t for the loud crash that came from above. At the top of the room, through the door they came in, a group of at least ten hit wizards came bursting in, wands raised. Draco looked at Granger and she was almost returned to her regular appearance bar a slight distortion of her nose and mouth. That must mean that his own Polyjuice had worn off already.

Quickly, he reached for the vials he had hidden in his inner pocket. They might not get out completely unscathed, but they might be able to disguise themselves before the wizards got too close. Draco’s heart was pounding in his ears as he tried to open the vial with shaking hands. There was shouting from all around as the hit wizards told them to stay very still and raise their arms. They streamed down steps like an army of ants and began firing spells in all directions. One zipped past Draco’s ear and in his shock, he dropped the Polyjuice, the vial shattering and the potion fizzing over the floor.

“Damnit!”

“Draco, there’s no time. We split and run.”

“Granger I’m not leaving here without you.”

“I’m not the one they’re after. Get yourself out. Go!” She turned, wand raised, and started firing a barrage of spells as she tried to make a run for it up the right side of the room where there was a gap in the web of hit wizards.

Draco didn’t need telling twice. He sprinted in the opposite direction, rapidly firing as many spells as he could think of. It wasn’t until he’d made it halfway up the steps that he realised he had been using Potter’s wand. He took two wizards out as once my firing a stunning hex at the wall where it split in two. Up ahead he could see three more blocking his way out. Granger had already made it to the top and he was glad when she disappeared out of sight without looking back.

He’d taken too long to watch her, and a spell caught his ear. It stung but he tried to ignore it, scanning his surroundings for a way out. His heart hammered inside his ribcage and he was losing his grip on Potter’s wand. He ducked to avoid a spell aimed at his head but moved right into the path of another instead. It hit him square on the chest and that’s when everything changed.

It felt like every fibre of his being had snapped all at once. He tumbled backwards down the steps and Potter’s wand skittered away from him. His vision blurred as he felt everything inside him breaking and fusing back together in the wrong order. It wasn’t until he looked down at his hands that were no longer hands that he realised what was happening. He was transforming.

He didn’t know if it was a delayed reaction to the spell they had tried to cast, or if it was fear alone that had prompted it, but Draco had definitely transformed into his animagus. It meant he would be able to dart and weave around the remaining hit wizards – if he could time it well. Except, as he tried to figure out how to balance with four legs and… a tail? Definitely a tail, his vision blurred and instead of the Veil and the deep amphitheatre-style room, all he could see was bright green eyes. He couldn’t tell if he was still in the Ministry of if he had been transported elsewhere, but Potter was right there, grinning at Draco, opening his arms for him.

Draco cried out but the only sound was an inhuman screeching. He blinked rapidly, trying to figure out what was going on, but then something sharp and hot pierced his back. He pitched forward and hit his head.


	11. Chapter 11

Saturday 13th November 1999

_He was back in the forest. This time it’s much colder, and he huddles against the fierce winds that blew through his thin shirt sleeves. It isn’t quite so dark as last time, so he can see the outlines of the trees, but he doesn’t remember which way to go. The whistle of the wind through the leaves sounds like screams of terror and sends a shiver down his spine that has nothing to do with the cold. He just wants to go home._

_He spins on the spot, scanning for a clear path through, trying to remember what it was he had been here for last time. His head feels thick and heavy, as if he’s just woken up from a draught of sleeping potion. Aspen should have been there, like last time. How was Harry supposed to know where to go without Aspen? He is sure now that the fox in his dream had been the same one that had shown up on his doorstep all those months ago, there was no other explanation._

_Harry stumbles forward through the forest blindly. It doesn’t matter if he knew which way to go, Aspen would come, he knew it. The light swells and diminishes as he fights his way through thick and thin patches of trees. This isn’t a forest he’d been in before, while awake, that much he knows. The trees are too sparse to be the Forest of Dean and too dense to be the Forbidden Forest._

_“Aspen?” He calls out into the darkness. Why couldn’t he be here in the daylight when he would have half a chance of finding his own way. Just like last time he knows already he has no wand and therefore can’t light his own way. Owls hoot in the trees and woodland creatures snap small twigs as they scurry back to their homes for the night. Unlike last time when it was the dead of night, this time it’s just after dusk and the sky isn’t yet as midnight blue as it will be soon._

_He tries to keep walking straight ahead, but this way is rocky, and he is barefoot again. He ends up veering off to the left and can’t find his way back to the path again. The moonlight is partially blocked by cloud, emitting a silvery glow but not pointing the way. He thinks maybe he should give up; just sit there until someone or something comes. But that’s not him. He doesn’t just give up, and he doesn’t wait around for someone to tell him what to do._

_Eventually there’s a flick of a bushy tail and he freezes. Cold sweat trickles uncomfortably down his spine despite the cold evening; it sticks his shirt to his back. “Aspen!” He calls again. The fox appears in front of him and yells at him like he’s dawdling._

_“Alright, alright! You know I don’t know the way.” He could swear that the fox rolls his eyes at him, but that’s not possible. Together, like before, they make their way to the clearing with the stone arch. Harry hears the voices much sooner than he did during his previous visit, but they’re still as eerie and indistinguishable._

_The cold is much worse in the clearing without the protection of the trees. His teeth chatter as he watches Aspen stalk around the base of the arch before settling in front of it as he did before. There must be something important about this arch if Harry keeps being led here, but he still doesn’t understand the markings in the stone and he still doesn’t understand what the voices want. This time he steps closer to the misty substance inside the arch. It’s almost transparent and he can see the murky water of the river rushing past in the distance, whipped into a furore by the howling winds. His hair is flying into his eyes and he blinks rapidly to keep it at bay when his hands become too cold for him to move them. He stands behind the spot where Aspen is curled on the ground and stares through the archway, waiting._

_Then something emerges from the mist. At first, he thinks it’s just a formless swirl that looks anthropomorphised, like a ballerina, but the swirls came together into the shape of a man. He’s a tall man, or at least taller than him, with long limbs and a pointed chin. It takes a while for any features to become distinguishable, but when they do Harry gasps._

_The first thing he notices are the grey eyes. He knows those eyes because he has seen them before; molten silver flecked with grey, lined with long pale eyelashes. His eyes travel down a long nose to full lips and sharp jawline. Even the man’s hair is a familiar shade of silvery blond and his heart jumps to his throat when their eyes lock. The man is semi-transparent like a ghost, but he looks right out of the mist as if he can see everything in the forest, really see him standing before the arch. Everything about him is familiar, but he doesn’t know why._

_Their eye contact breaks when Aspen jumps up and yips happily at the man in the arch. The man frowns for a second before his face breaks out in a wide smile and he bends down as if to pet the fox. His hand cannot breach the arch, but he presses his palm against it happily, as if he knew he wouldn’t be able to touch Aspen. Aspen continues to yip at him as if they were having a fluent conversation and the man even nods along._

_The man stands back up again and looks right at him. Involuntarily, he steps forward, as if he might step through, until the hubbub of voices become unbearable and he clamps his hands over his ears. The man’s smile crumples and takes on a pained expression. His mouth moves furiously as if he’s trying to communicate something, but his words can’t get through any more than his hand. There’s something about this man. Something important. Something he has long forgotten that he needs to remember. A tear falls from the man’s eyes and his heart breaks for him, although he doesn’t know why._

_It comes again. The desperate, agonising pull between the ground he stands on and the voices. Something deep within him screams for him to reach out to the man, to let him take him wherever it is he’s supposed to go. For a moment, the anguish in the man’s eyes vanishes, replaced with a relaxed and open look. But he doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t know why this man wants him so much. He steps back and the man fades into the swirls of the mist._

Harry woke up with a gasp, flat on his back on his living room floor, Aspen curled up on his chest. His little fox stirred, disturbed by Harry’s violent awakening. He stares at Harry with his large grey eyes and if Harry’s not much mistaken, the fox knows the dream he just woke from.

He didn’t remember why he ended up on the living room floor. When Harry had returned that day after speaking to Lyra about Sirius, the whole house was upside down. Aspen had raided cupboard for snacks and ripped through cushions; he’d dumped the small collection of toys he had into his water bowl and flung them all over the floor. He’d even hidden under Harry’s bed and screamed for an hour before Ron managed to coax him out with sugar snaps, only for the fox to wee on the floor and saunter off. Now Aspen would only sleep if Harry was there, although that didn’t require being on the floor.

“You too mate?” Harry asked as if he could talk back. He scratched between Aspen’s ears the way he likes, and the fox’s eyes drooped again. He shoved his nose under Harry’s chin and tried to go back to sleep and Harry was about to let him when there was a pounding on the front door. Harry knew full well Aspen wasn’t asleep, but he refused to budge so Harry had no choice but to go to the door with the fox held against his chest like a newborn.

“It worked!” Lyra shouted in his face as soon as he opened the door. He didn’t even think to ask her what she was talking about because as soon as he made eye contact it was like all the breath had been sucked from his body. He stood there with the door open, even though it was clearly raining outside, and Lyra was dripping all over the hallway.

The man in his dream looked just like Lyra. Same hair colour, same eye colour, same cupid’s bow lip, same pointed chin and sharp jaw. Harry’s head spun as pictures flickered across his vision. Standing in Madam Malkin’s on a platform with a snobby little boy blabbering away about Hogwarts houses while Madam Malkin was poking him with pins. Him following the same boy, now almost a man, all the way to the girls’ bathroom where he found him crying, minutes later blood pouring all over the floor and Harry’s stomach lurching in fear and guilt. The man looking him in the eye as similar looking people, presumably his parents, watched on with anxious looks on their faces: “I can’t- I can’t be sure”.

Harry gripped the doorframe as the world shifted sideways. How could these two people have the same face? Was he imagining things? Who was that man in his dreams and what did he want with Harry?

“Potter…? Are you alright? You look frightfully grey… Harry!” He nearly fell face first through the doorway and into Lyra, but she caught his arm to steady him. Aspen cried and ran off when Harry’s arms went slack around him and he dropped to the floor. “Harry you need to sit down.” He nodded vaguely and allowed her to steer him into the flat and set him down on the sofa. He wanted to ask her how she knew where he lived and what she was doing here, but as he opened his mouth a wave of nausea hit him, and he clamped it shut until it passed.

“Fucking hell I did not come here to be your nursemaid.”

He jumped when something cold was pressed against his forehead and a glass of water was pushed into his hand. He gulped it down and sighed with relief when the world stopped spinning.

“What are you-” he croaked.

“Shut up, I’m looking after you.” He wanted to laugh; the concept of being looked after by Malfoy was ludicrous, and her bedside manner atrocious, but it also felt kind of nice. He let his eyes close as he concentrated on not throwing up all over his living room floor.

“Are you feeling ok?” He asked her with a half laugh, though he couldn’t see her because he kept his eyes closed.

“I should be the one asking that. I know my presence is overwhelming, but you didn’t need to go all faint on me.” Harry cracked one eye open so that he could put the empty glass down safely, found that he wasn’t about to pass out or be sick, and decided it was safe to open them again.

It wasn’t unusual for him to find himself unable to look away from her. He knew full well he’d spent the past few months thinking of little else besides Aspen and Lyra. Her hair was curling even more than usual as it dried, and Harry desperately wanted to run his hands through it, but each time he caught her eye something inside him lurched like he was about to fall off a precipice.

It was just a dream, wasn’t it? Surely, he knew her face well enough by now to be able to conjure it in his sleep. It couldn’t be that crazy.

“How did you- what are you-” He couldn’t string a full sentence together to save his life. She knelt in front of him and turned the cool cloth over and pressed it back to his forehead and he sighed involuntarily.

“The werewolf replied to our letter.” He winced and he wasn’t sure if it was because she referred to Remus as the werewolf again, or if it was because being this close to her made him dizzy again.

“And…?”

“I rather got the impression it’s Sirius’ fault they’re not on speaking terms. I brought his reply for you to read; I’m not sure where you want to go from here.” He wished he could enjoy them finally being civilised with each other. He wished he could fully take in the phenomenon of her coming to his flat like this. But all he could think about was that man’s faced overlaid on hers. They weren’t just similar; they were _the same_.

Eventually, the shock wore off and the world started to return to normal. It was still bizarre to see Lyra wandering around his kitchen making him a cup of tea like she’d been there a hundred times before, but the warm fuzzy feeling the familiarity of her movements gave him was enough to offset his confusion.

He hadn’t known what it would be like to see her again after their kiss. It made him hot all over to think about it even now. It wasn’t as though he had expected them to talk about it, but it was an elephant in the room. He certainly hadn’t expected her to show up on his doorstep all bright and bubbly like a kid in a sweetshop. He’d obviously seen to that quickly enough anyway.

“Feeling better?” She asked him when she set down the tea beside him, made exactly how he likes it. “You can read the letter if you are.”

“Thank you.” He took a sip of the tea and sighed. “Yeah, I’d like to read it.” It occurred to him when she shivered that she was still cold and damp, so he waved a hand half absentmindedly to dry her off and warm her up. He jumped when she gasped.

“Did you just…?” She was frozen in position, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open.

“Yeah, why?” He frowned.

“Potter, did no one tell you… well, using wandless magic on someone, it’s- it’s considered very intimate…” A gorgeous flush rose on her cheeks and Harry was stunned for a minute. He must have cast wandless magic on someone before. He’s never heard anything of the sort.

“What? But I swear I’ve done it before, you know, with Ron and Hermione and stuff.”

“Yes, well, Granger is a mu-muggleborn isn’t she. It won’t have the same connotations for her. And Weasley. You consider yourself family I dare say. So you see, it’s not really the same…”

Harry scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, unable to meet Lyra’s eye. “Right. Well, I’d do it again. I mean, it doesn’t really change anything, does it?” Silence hung awkwardly in the air as he tried to figure out exactly what he’d just inadvertently implied. Not saying anything, she pulled out a slightly crumpled letter and thrust it into his hands, getting up and wandering around the room under the guise of being interested in the random ornaments he had collected over the years.

_Dear Harry and Lyra,_

_(are you two friends now?)_

_Thank you for enquiring after my health. I’m doing as well as can be expected, I hope this letter finds you both happy and healthy. It’s good to hear from you after so long._

_I’m not sure if Snuffles has told you much, but I can assure you my lack of contact has not been by choice. I have tried on numerous occasions to get back in touch and all of my letters have gone unanswered, some were even returned unopened. Whilst I appreciate the effort you have gone to in trying to bring us back together again, it’s entirely up to him._

_I cannot, and will not, force myself back into his life. You don’t know the damage it would cause._

_Sincerely,_

_R.J. Lupin_

“Not exactly what I was hoping for,” Harry muttered as he folded the letter back up. He hadn’t expected it to be a walk in the park by any means, but the look on Sirius’ face when he’d brought up Remus had made him think that it was Remus who had ceased contact.

“He calls him Snuffles?” Lyra giggled. It was one of the sweetest sounds Harry had ever heard.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said absently, “it’s not a pet name. It’s the codename we gave Sirius during the war. I didn’t think to keep it up with Remus, but he could be anywhere now and maybe it’s not so safe there. Or maybe he just wanted to keep that distance.” He drank more of his tea, the sugar helping to steady his wooziness, and wondered what he should do next. It was always Hermione who came up with the plans that actually worked – well, worked better than his would have anyway. Not that any plan they’d ever made ever worked out the way they’d wanted it to.

“Well it looks like that’s a dead end anyway. It’s nice that you wanted to help Cousin Sirius but maybe he’s better off without the werewolf,” Lyra shrugged. Harry balled the letter up in his fist.

“Would you stop that?” He snapped. “How would you like it if you were only ever referred to as ‘the pureblood’ or ‘the Slytherin’ or ‘the greatest pain in the arse that ever lived’? They’re not your defining traits and they’re not half as stigmatised as werewolves.”

She shrugged. “Better than ‘the posh twat’.” Just then Aspen came scampering back into the room. He went over to his water bowl, stuck his entire head in it, flicked water all over the floor, then jumped up and put his head in Harry’s lap.

“You silly sausage,” he said with mild exasperation as he felt water seep through his jeans. “Can you go five minutes without making a mess, hm?”

“What are we going to do about it then? The letter.”

Harry thought for a moment while Aspen kneaded at his t-shirt. “I say we go and see Sirius and get to the bottom of this.” He could see the look of irritation on her face and again he was nettled. “Look, you don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to, but you didn’t see how sad he was, ok? I’m doing this whether you’re with me or not.”

“Good. Because I already invited the were- Lupin to Grimmauld this afternoon.”

“You did what?!”

~

“Harry! And…Lyra? This is a surprise. Come in.” Sirius looked worried as he ushered them down the hallway of Grimmauld Place. The two of them were walking very close together and Harry couldn’t quite tell if it was purposeful until he felt her grip his little finger. Why only his little finger, he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t question it.

“I can’t believe you did this behind my back.” Harry hissed quietly enough that Sirius couldn’t hear.

“Shut up, Potter. I just did what you were too scared to do.” Her grip on his little finger was fierce, but he didn’t shake her off. “You’ll thank me for it later.”

“You’d better be right.”

“I’m always right.”

Harry expected Sirius to take them into the kitchen where they usually sat together, but this time he led them up to the room where Harry remembered the Black family tapestry was, although he didn’t come up here much.

“It’s funny you should come today of all days. I was just sorting through that awful library, throwing away some of my family’s gruesome dark magic books.” Sirius seemed to shiver, but Harry might have imagined it. “I found a spell I thought I might use to restore the tapestry.”

“Restore it?” Lyra seemed shocked and had gone very white. “Why would you want to do that? Surely now is the time to destroy it.”

“I thought about that, but I also think burning people from a tapestry because they don’t share the same ideals as us is a dangerous route to take. I never got on with my family, and you both know how much of a disappointment I was to my mother, but I want to remember how far we have come since then.” Harry had never really thought about it that way, but he supposed if people forgot why the war happened, there’d be no reason why it couldn’t happen again.

He stepped towards the tapestry and looked at the numerous burn holes in the fabric. At least two thirds of the family had been removed for one reason or another. It made the tree quite pointless since hardly any of the lines had a clear run through the generations. He could see where Sirius had started to repair the threads.

“It’s impressive.” Lyra said with wonder. “You might be able to undo the burns, but I don’t think you’ll be able to restore it to its original state. That’s the kind of thing you’ll need a professional for.”

Harry kept quiet because he didn’t know anything about such things. He briefly wondered whether his grandparents had ever had one like it, being purebloods. They wouldn’t have burned his dad out for marrying his mum though. They took Sirius in all those years ago after all.

He tried to find Lyra on the tapestry. He followed from Sirius’ burn mark and found his cousins Bellatrix and Narcissa, from there he saw Lucius by name but with no image, then suddenly his gaze was at the empty side of the tapestry. He looked back at Narcissa and drew his eyes along again and it was blank…again. Where was Lyra?

“Lyra, you’re not on here…” Harry said slowly.

“Of course I am,” she waved her hand in the vague direction of Narcissa, “I’m right there. Honestly, Potter, you need new glasses.” Harry looked and again his eyes skipped from Narcissa to empty space. Strange.

“Does it bother you that there won’t be any more Blacks on the tapestry?” Harry said suddenly. Of course, Lyra would carry on the lineage, but Sirius was the last to carry the family name.

“It used to,” Sirius admitted, “but now I think it’s for the best. The era of my family and it’s ignorant values is over, maybe it’s best they go with it.” There was that same look on his face that there was when Harry had mentioned Remus to him; a kind of wistfulness tinged with sorrow. Harry didn’t like to see him that way. The image of the man in the arch who looked just like Lyra surfaced again and his stomach swooped.

“Sirius,” Lyra started carefully while Harry was still trying to figure out the tapestry, “aren’t you lonely in this house?” In the corner of his eye he could see Sirius tense.

“Why? What have you two done? I should have known the two of you coming here together would mean nothing but trouble…” Harry ran his eyes over the tapestry again. Something was wrong.

“We wrote to Remus,” Lyra was saying. “We think it would be good for you to have someone around. Other than us that is. It’s not good for you to spend so much time alone…”

Harry never caught the look on Sirius’ face, because it occurred to him in that moment to search the tapestry for something else. He looked back at Narcissa and followed the silvery branches one more time, but instead of thinking of Lyra, he thought of the man in the arch who looked just like her.

His heart nearly stopped mid-beat when his eyes landed on a new face and a new name. Same eyes, same hair colour, same pointed features, just as he had expected. The name beneath the face read _Draco Malfoy_.


	12. Chapter 12

_Draco. Draco. Draco._ It buzzed around Harry’s brain like a bee. He rolled the name around on his tongue silently, marvelling at how natural it seemed. A tidal wave of sadness seemed to have washed over him since he’d seen that name. All thought which lead him to the source of the _Draco_ that was knocking around inside his skull also seemed to repel him, as if the name was a carefully guarded secret. It left his head thick and soupy, like he’d opened a door for something that could never go back again.

Lyra and Sirius were having a heated discussion about whether it was right for her to have invited Remus, even though it was actually Harry’s idea. Sirius didn’t seem angry about it, but Harry could tell he was worried. However, Harry couldn’t contribute to the conversation because he felt as though he’d been struck dumb by a strong _stupefy_.

“Harry?” Their argument hung suspended in the air as they both stared at him. He didn’t recall making a sound, but something had caught their attention. He was surprised to notice Lyra looked almost as concerned as Sirius and he jumped when she touched his knee under the table. She jerked back violently as if she’d been burned.

“Sorry,” he apologised, his voice watery, “what were you saying?” But neither of them resumed what they were saying.

“You look very pale,” Lyra said, her face creased with unease. She reached out instinctively to support him when he swayed on the spot, but she wouldn’t have been able to catch him if he had fallen.

At that very moment there was a whoosh of magic and a thump from downstairs. Harry’s heart jumped to his throat. Despite how discombobulated he felt, a fizz of excitement bubbled in his chest. Remus could get through the wards; that had to be a good thing, didn’t it?

He tried to ignore the buzzing in his head as the three of them thumped their way downstairs in a hurry. They didn’t hear anything else until they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Hello?” Remus called from the drawing room and Sirius darted off towards the door.

“Do not fuck this up.” Lyra hissed in his ear while they had a moment alone. “We’re doing this for Sirius, and we won’t get another chance.” Irritation flared. He didn’t like the implication that he was doing this on purpose – why should he? He _wanted_ Sirius to be happy. Didn’t she care that his world was turning? But she also said _we,_ and something fluttered in Harry’s chest at that. There wasn’t time for him to respond because Sirius and Remus emerged from the doorway.

Remus looked shabbier than ever. Harry didn’t know what he’d been up to since the last battle when he’d disappeared off to the Ministry and hadn’t returned. The letter he had sent hadn’t proffered any information, but whatever it was it didn’t seem to be doing his health much good. His clothes looked as though they’d been darned ten times over and even then, the cuffs and the collar of his jacket were ragged and frayed. The tension in the air was thick as Sirius and Remus regarded each other, then Harry and Lyra. Harry wasn’t sure exactly how long it had been since they last saw each other but he imagined it had been quite a while. Despite Remus’s ragged appearance, he walked like a man who’d recently had a heavy burden lifted from his shoulders. Harry sincerely hoped that were true.

“Harry, Miss Malfoy,” Remus greeted them politely, as if they weren’t the architects of the entire affair, “it’s nice to see you again. I must apologise for my poor state of dress. Things have been… difficult, these past months.” He spoke slowly, as if he had to think about each word carefully before he said it. Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Lyra jumped in before he could utter a word.

“We were just getting out of your way,” she said, straightening up to her full height like a puppet on a string. “Please excuse us.”

“Of course, your cousin and I have much to discuss.” Remus smiled and it showed the papery thinness of his skin. Harry glanced at Sirius who was eyeing Remus with concern. Harry had only ever known Remus to look sickly, but he supposed Sirius had more often seen him as a young and, relatively, healthy teenager. Sirius was notably quiet, but Harry hoped that he would open up to Remus in a way that he couldn’t with Harry.

The pair walked past them into the kitchen and Sirius pushed the door closed softly. Lyra turned to Harry the second they were out of earshot. “What the hell are you playing at? I only did this because you asked me to!”

“I’m not playing at anything,” he mumbled, trying to walk up the stairs on his own. The buzzing had eased since they’d come downstairs, but being close to her made the feeling worse, like his head was being held underwater and he couldn’t come up for air. Perhaps this was all just a dream and Dudley had been holding his head in the toilet the whole time. He could hear Lyra clattering up the stairs behind him.

She caught up with him when he was forced to pause and cling to the bannister for dear life. For a second he thought she was going to pause and wait for him to gather his strength, but instead she gripped his elbow firmly and marched him, quite roughly, into the very room Harry wanted to be far away from – the tapestry room.

“No, please,” he begged her, “anywhere else but here.” When they had been up there before the floo flared, Harry hadn’t taken much notice of the room besides that tapestry, but now he saw that there were random items of furniture hidden beneath dust covers.

“Grow up, Potter,” Lyra snapped, “you can barely stand. You’ll go where I tell you.” His vision distorted as he watched her whip the cover off an over-stuffed armchair and transfigure it into a long, soft looking sofa. The movement of her wand was sure and graceful like she barely had to think about it. He’d never noticed how naturally magic came to her until then. Although her bedside manner still left much to be desired, she helped lower him onto it with surprising gentleness.

It felt like the tapestry was calling out to him and he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t find his gaze wandering towards it. His stomach swooped with wave upon wave of emotions he couldn’t fully decipher, and he felt his eyes itch with hot tears that he didn’t understand. Why would a single name make him feel so cast out and untethered? He didn’t remember lying down, but he could feel the soft material of the transfigured sofa pressing against his cheek. It didn’t stop his head swimming, but it was a relief not to have to hold himself up anymore. He jumped when he felt his head being lifted but he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. There was a rustle of clothing and a dip in the sofa and suddenly his head was resting on something warm and solid.

His stomach flipped when he realised Lyra had rested his head in her lap. Every inch of his body felt awkward. What should he say? What was he supposed to do? They’d kissed a few times, but if he was honest, he didn’t really know how she felt, and he was way too scared to ask; she wasn’t really that affectionate a person. She’d definitely never done anything like that before. But then the unthinkable happened. He was trying very hard to stay completely still, too afraid to open his eyes, when he felt her fingers run through his hair.

The movement was tentative, unsure, nothing like the confident Malfoy he was used to. There was a pause and then it happened again. Presumably because Harry didn’t do anything to deter her, Lyra continued to play with Harry’s hair. In a way it seemed wrong, since Harry was usually the one who was obsessed with her hair, but it also made his heart race in his chest.

“What are you doing?” He asked her, much like he had a before when he had felt the same groggy feeling at the flat and she had fetched him water.

“Do you want me to stop?” There was something of a challenge in the question, but he could sense the unevenness of her breath.

Silence. They were together like that for an indeterminable length of time. Forcing himself not to think too much about everything, Harry managed to get rid of that swimming feeling. He didn’t feel very calm about the situation, but he couldn’t figure out what to do until he could think straight. He wanted to take comfort in Lyra, feeling that calm which passed over him whenever he heard her sing, but now her name jangled in his head like an alarm bell and he didn’t understand why.

“I think we should talk.” She said after a while. Something tightened in his chest.

“About?”

“You. You were ill this morning too.” She didn’t pose it as a question, but he knew what she was asking. He was not ill really, or at least he didn’t think he was. Whatever happened in his dream has started something, and he wasn’t sure what was real and what was not. He sat up and turned to face her as if ready to engage in the uncomfortable topic of conversation but instead he changed the subject on her.

“Who is Draco?” His voice cracked in the middle of the name.

She looked confused. “Who?” He pointed over his shoulder towards the tapestry.

“The name on the tapestry that should be yours. Draco Malfoy.” She got up and walked over to it to look for herself. He stayed where he was facing the space she’d just occupied and deliberately not looking himself for fear of bringing on another spell of dizziness.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said slowly. He turned to find her staring blankly at the tapestry, he fixed his eyes on the fall of her blonde curls.

“Tell me it’s real.” He could mean a dozen things by that, but he didn’t know exactly what he was asking.

“Tell you what’s real?” Lyra turned but then stood very still as Harry came to stand in front of her. Her face was carefully blank, and pain clamped down on his chest. He needed to see what she was feeling so he could understand but she almost never gave anything away in her expression and they weren’t yet comfortable enough with each other for him to risk asking.

He reached for her hands and noticed she was wearing some of the rings she’d worn at that open mic night, the snitch in particular standing out on the index finger of her left hand. He thought that was an unusual choice. He turned her right palm over, the palm that had a tiny freckle between her thumb and her index finger. He’d noticed it that first day he’d gone with Aspen to Luna’s and Lyra had been sitting in the armchair reading a book. When he ran his thumb over the freckle, she closed her hand, trapping his thumb between her palm and fingers. He was still looking down when she leaned in and kissed him. He hadn’t expected it at all, and he almost pulled away, but he caught his reflexes just in time.

Her kiss was tentative like she hadn’t kissed before. It was barely a nudge of their lips as if she was challenging him to take control. Instinctively his hands reached for her waist and he pulled her against him. He had always held back from the feeling he got whenever he saw her, but this time he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. Her hands were in his hair again as the kiss deepened. Breathing seemed irrelevant, time unimportant. The fear and confusion swirling inside him were banished by the pang of affection he felt holding her in his arms.

When they parted, he realised that it was the first time she’s initiated a kiss. It felt like some kind of revelation.

“There’s not Draco Malfoy,” she said, her eyes boring into his own, “just me.” She said it in the most un-Malfoy-like way he had ever heard her say anything. With an openness which verged on vulnerability. Suddenly he realised that her standoffishness wasn’t born out of dislike anymore, but fear.

“You wanted to kiss me.” The disbelief in his voice sounded wrong even two his own ears, but he found the concept of her wanting him difficult. That afternoon at Luna’s Harry had been the one to move in first and although Lyra had seemed very pleased with the notion, nothing had been said about it since.

“You thought I didn’t?”

“I thought- it’s hard to tell with you.” He forced himself to look away from her as he swayed on his feet once more. It wasn’t doing him any good to be this close, and yet he couldn’t help it.

“Harry, I wanted to kiss you. I want to kiss you.” She paused and his heart sank in his chest as he anticipated a ‘but’. “I also want to know what is going through your head right now. You’re not telling me anything. Why are you asking me about this person called Draco? Is it something to do with whatever’s making you like this?” He felt a flush of embarrassment rise up his neck and burn onto his cheeks. It sounded so sincere, nothing like her usual aloofness.

“I know. I- I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t understand.”

“Are you sick? I don’t have much favour anymore, but I still know a few healers who would help if they knew-” His chest swelled with affection when he dared to meet her eye and saw the earnest look on her face. It was hard not to smile.

“Malfoy, are you worried about me?”

She flushed and looked down at the floor. “No, of course not.” But he knew that she was. Still, this wasn’t something she would be able to help him with, even if her worry was genuine.

“No, it’s not like that. I’m fine.”

“You would tell me, if you knew there was something wrong, wouldn’t you?” He thought about that. It was odd for her to be invested in him, the fragile new intimacy between them seemed like something he should cradle carefully in his hands. He didn’t know that he could tell her anything at all. He might be going slowly mad. But was it better to lie and save face or to tell her the truth?

“I can’t promise that.” He said eventually.

“I see.” Her face shuttered just as he expected. His refusal sat heavy between them and even though he desperately wanted to reach out and kiss her again, he knew it wouldn’t be appreciated.

“It’s just something I need to figure out for myself,” he said desperately, searching her eyes for understanding. She nodded once but the step back she took from him told him more than enough.

She wasn’t looking at him. Instead she was looking at the solitary window on the wall to the right of the tapestry. It had no view except for a large sycamore tree whose branches obscured the streets behind the house. There was nothing but bare twigs now that autumn was paving the way for winter. Still, it gave her something to look at that wasn’t him.

It was then that he could no longer fight the calling from the tapestry. His eyes found Draco instantly and he fought the wave that came over him when they did. It was hard to describe how it made him feel. Maybe he should have been scared, but he wasn’t. It was difficult to be scared when so much of it didn’t make any sense. There could be a simple explanation for it all. Maybe Narcissa and Lucius had expected a boy and ended up with a girl. Maybe the fabric of the tapestry had been so damaged by all the burns that the magic had failed. Maybe he was just seeing things.

Lyra couldn’t see Draco. She either saw herself or she was disillusioned so as not to see anything at all. Afterall, she had only gestured vaguely when he had mentioned it before. And didn’t the tapestry add the names magically after a new baby had arrived, not before? His head hurt with all the possibilities. Almost unconsciously, he inched closer to the wall until the tips of his fingers could brush Draco’s face if he stood at arm’s length. Magic prickled his skin like weak electric shocks.

“Do you think you would have been burned off the tapestry?” He asked when there was enough space between them to fit a hippogriff. He tried to keep his voice steady but _dracodracodraco_ was pounding in time with the beat of his heart and he was struggling to concentrate. His fingers itched to reach out to her, but he forced himself to stay where he was.

“I think abandoning the Dark Lord in the middle of the biggest battle the wizarding world has ever seen is probably enough for a hefty singe. Luckily for me there’s no one left to do it.” The casual way in which she said it while leaning one shoulder against the windowpane was at odds with the way the blood froze in Harry’s veins. He shot across the room with such speed that the room span so fast his head might have toppled right off his shoulders.

“What?” His face was mere inches from hers and it was impossible not to see how perfectly her face matched the man in his dream; everything fit feature for feature. But those eyes. He’d seen those eyes somewhere else too. Somewhere long before he’d had that dream, but he didn’t know where.

It was instinctual to glance down at her left arm. He remembered when he had caught her in Luna’s conservatory. When the light had hit her just so and the music changed the way she held herself, he remembered thinking how strange it was that he associated her with ignorance, intolerance, and Death Eaters. Death Eaters who had the dark mark on their arms. Before he could think too much about it, he took her left hand and pulled her arm towards him. She was wearing long sleeves again and now that he thought about it, he had never seen her with her arms exposed.

“Harry what-” she wasn’t quick enough to pull her arm away before he pushed her sleeve back and exposed the creamy white, silky skin of her inner arm. Without a dark mark.

The dizzying underwater feeling slammed back into him with such force his knees almost buckled. More flashes flew across his vision. The man, who he knew now to be Draco, yanking his arm away from Madam Malkin during a fitting sometime around their sixth year. Harry throwing punch after punch after a quidditch match until Madam Hooch had to pull him away, leaving the boy on the ground before him dazed and bloody. He remembered the rage he felt, the animosity between them, but then he saw a wall of fire and felt that desperate need to _get Draco out_. He couldn’t leave without him. Not after everything.

He pulled away from Lyra too sharply. It was no longer possible to look her in the eye and not see Draco Malfoy in every way. But it didn’t make sense. He was here, right in front of a woman whose name was Malfoy, who he could touch and talk to. Their eyes were locked as if they were about to parley and he didn’t know who would come off worse. There was no mark on her arm. She had not become a Death Eater. His stomach plummeted to the floor.

And yet he remembered. He remembered the night on the Astronomy Tower. He remembered the slow-motion horror as Dumbledore fell. The childish disbelief, assuming that Dumbledore couldn’t _die_ , he was Dumbledore. He knew that the only reason he had ever been able to defeat Voldemort had been Tom Riddle’s resulting miscalculation over the owner of the Elder Wand. If Lyra had never become a Death Eater, she could never have been given that impossible task. She would never have been at the tower that night. She wouldn’t have disarmed Dumbledore. The wand would have been Snape’s…

The realisation should have sent him running. He should have made for the door and never looked back. He didn’t want it to be true. The next thing he knew, he was on the floor with her face was looming over him. He could see her lips moving, probably calling for him, trying to get a response, but it was like he was only half there. He stared, dazed, into her pale face and suddenly its wrongness was all he could see. Where was he? How did he get here? Or was he where he had always been, and it was everything else that had changed?

A distant rumbling came from below. It throbbed against the back of his head where it had made contact with the floor. There was a commotion of some sort, but it didn’t seem to bother him. It was getting louder, stronger, with each passing second but his gaze didn’t leave Lyra’s face. The mildly sadistic thought that he enjoyed her being worried about him crossed his mind before the door burst open and he realised the thumping had been the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.

Sirius and Remus burst into the room with a clatter. Harry’s vision wasn’t up to much by that point, even with his glasses on, but he could see that Sirius’s eyes were red-rimmed and raw. He was shocked, however, to see the fiery red mop of hair sticking out from behind Remus’s head. Ron pushed his way through between Harry’s godfather and his best friend and started babbling away.

“Harry mate, I’m so sorry, but the fox! He somehow figured out how to use the floo! I have no idea how he got the powder from the mantle. I tried to stop him, but I didn’t catch him in time and- oh.” Harry was vaguely aware that there was a bundle of silver in Ron’s arms, but everything was fogging over and he was getting confused.

“What’s going on here?” Remus asked just as Aspen burst free from Ron’s grip. He skittered across the floor towards Harry, who was busy propping himself up on his elbows, feeling awkward and embarrassed. Aspen jumped into Harry’s lap and keened at him, his head tilted to the left and his ears twitching. Aspen had never settled with Ron well, but Harry didn’t find it too coincidental that he had made a run for the floo, until he saw Aspen’s eyes.

That was where he had seen them before. Aspen, Lyra, and Draco all had the same shade of silver-grey eyes. How had he never noticed that before? His heart was in his throat as four faces loomed above his head and the fox sat whining on his lap. What was supposed to happen now?

When no one answered Remus’s question, he stepped forward to help Harry up. Aspen dropped from his lap, but stuck close and weaved between his legs. He was manoeuvred on wobbly legs to the sofa Lyra had transfigured but he was barely aware of anything that was happening. It made him feel better that Ron was there because nothing could really be so bad if Ron was involved, but now he began to question if Ron’s regular disappearances weren’t just him trying to manage his breakup. And what if Aspen’s objections to Ron were something more sinister? Where had Aspen really come from anyway? More to the point, why had Harry never thought of any of this?

His head hurt with all the questions and the constant drumming of Draco’s name. He had to do something about it, but it was getting harder to think or see straight. Ron was trying to get him to lie down again but Harry wasn’t having any of it. Sleeping wasn’t what he needed, he needed to get out of the house and do something about it. Something far away from that cursed tapestry.

Lyra was in front of him again, squatting so their faces were level. He momentarily forgot about the tangle of people in the room and reached out to brush her hair away from her face. He couldn’t decipher her expression.

“How did we win the war?” He asked her quietly. His own voice sounded as if it was underwater. He could feel himself being dragged deep under the current and he wanted to let it take him. But first he needed to hear this. She seemed stunned for a minute and he guessed it was the last question she expected him to ask.

“What?”

“How did we win the war? Tell me like I don’t already know.” But he didn’t get to hear her answer because the tide came in and pulled him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this update took so long. I have been busy, but this chapter has also been the hardest I've written for this fic so far. It didn't turn out the way I wanted, even after a hundred edits, but I hope it will do. Feelings are not my forte...


	13. Chapter 13

_…Draco cried out, but the only sound was an inhuman screeching. He blinked rapidly, trying to figure out what was going on, but then something sharp and hot pierced his back. He pitched forward and hit his head._

Two things happened immediately after Draco regained consciousness. First, he sneezed. It appeared his nighttime foray into the grounds during the storm really had cost him dearly. Second, and as a result of the sneeze, he became aware of a rather large lump on his forehead, presumably due to his head hitting the ground. He could feel the lump but couldn’t touch it. It was then he understood that his hands were tied.

He blinked open his eyes, trying hard to make them focus. The place he was in was very dark, which made it hard to tell whether he couldn’t see or if there was just nothing _to_ see.

“Ah, Mr Malfoy, so kind of you to join us.” There was a man standing over him, peering down like he was examining a specimen. Draco’s instinct was to fight his restraints and get away from him. He thrashed against invisible barriers as he tried to free himself, but all it did was make his head swim and cause the man in front of him, presumably someone from the DMLE, to laugh cruelly. So much for a post-war reform of the system.

“Where am I?” Draco’s voice was gravelly and low but at least he had a voice, which meant he was back in his human form, and suggest that the thing which had hit him in the back was most likely an un-transfiguring spell. As far as he could tell, his back had suffered no lasting damage, but the cold that had been brewing when he’d left the Manor had gone full throttle in the time he had been out. He had barely had time to register that he had finally achieved his transformation and now he didn’t feel much like celebrating. He was cold, he felt ill, and there was a general air of misery around him.

“You’re in Azkaban, boy, where you belong.” Suddenly his senses came into sharp focus and Draco realised that everything was so dark because he had just been deposited inside a cell. It shouldn’t have surprised him. In fact, he had predicted this very thing from the beginning, and yet he was still overcome with the urge to cry. Maybe part of him had thought Granger would have been able to pull it off after all.

“Aren’t you going to read me my rights?” It was hard for him to keep his chin up, his head feeling as heavy as a bludger, but he couldn’t help trying to maintain his dignity for a little while longer.

The man laughed again. He was tall and broad; the parts of his face not covered by a thick grey beard were heavily scarred. He might have been menacing to anyone who wasn’t Draco, but he had been used to the Death Eaters loitering outside his bedroom door ‘keeping watch’, so very little phased him anymore.

“What rights?” The man said. “You think you have rights now?” He stepped backwards and two guards slammed the cell door closed behind him. At that moment, the bonds tying Draco’s hands released, but he didn’t move. He stayed where he had been dumped on the ground and stared at the man on the other side of the bars whose face was now half in shadow. Draco could feel his pulse thumping in his head, and his wrists stung where the invisible bindings had held them, but he was defiant.

The man stared at him menacingly through the bars and Draco waited for him to say something else. He was surprised that he wasn’t even angry, but his limbs felt so heavy that he doubted he had the energy to feel anything at all. He wanted to ask what would happen to him, how long he was going to be here, whether he would be allowed to fight the charge or write letters, but he knew by the victorious look on the man’s face that it would be futile.

“Can I help you?” He asked when the man continued to stare at him through the bars. His vicious smile faltered a little, but he didn’t rise to Draco’s bait.

“Enjoy your stay, prisoner.” The face withdrew into the shadows.

Only when Draco was left alone in his cell did he allow himself to really take in what was happening. Panic washed over him like a tidal when he realised that there was no father to charge in and demand he be released and no mother waiting for him to come home. His throat clamped shut so painfully it made his eyes water and he gasped for breath. He thought about his father now, how he had been in a cell like this one and Draco had barely cared. Not the second time anyway. He remembered the summer after his fifth year when his father had been locked up after the fiasco in the Department of Mysteries. It had terrified Draco then to see a man he thought untouchable reduced to nothing but a skeleton in a small, windowless, hovel. If he had known…

He slumped against the wall of his cell, closing his eyes and forcing those images away. When he had calmed down enough, he let out a long breath. This was the worst time for a cold, and the chill in the air was enough to make his teeth chatter anyway, even though it was approaching summer. He sneezed again and groaned when his head throbbed. Now was the time to focus on the positives however, to keep himself sane. He had managed to transform, that was a good thing, and he had all the time in the world to practise, assuming animagus magic wasn’t dampened in a place like this. There was also still a chance that the spell had worked, and he just didn’t know it yet. Maybe only Potter could feel it and he was coming back to Draco that very moment.

It was difficult to keep his head up. The ground was cold underneath him and the wall damp against his back, but it was already too dark to see much of the inside of his cell, and he was too exhausted and shivery to move. His chin fell against his chest and he held back a sob. This was not the way things were meant to go. It was impossible to tell how long he sat there, his head pounding and his thoughts whirring, but at some point, he must have fallen asleep.

_Draco was incredibly nervous sitting across the table from Potter. He wondered if Potter could tell how ill he had been over the summer; how heavy a toll everything had taken on him. He was getting better now, but his hair was lank and his skin too grey. He supposed Potter probably didn’t care. His heart was still pounding in his chest after having his wand returned to him. It felt warm in his palm and it took all his effort to put it in the pocket of his robes instead of sitting there with it in his hand like a child with a new toy._

_Such were the worries in his head when Potter told him of his ridiculous idea. He registered the words on a time delay, and he was glad he had just pocketed his wand, or he might have let it clatter to the floor._

_“Potter, you’ve lost your mind! You can’t break into the Department of Mysteries! You’re the most recognisable face in the country, if not the world. More to the point, it’s illegal! You’re not above the law just because you saved us.” Draco clenched his fists tightly as his sides to fight the painful constriction in his chest. Potter had just told him that he wanted to go in search of his godfather, Draco’s cousin Sirius, through the damn Veil to the sodding underworld. He could feel the angry flush blazing on his cheeks as he stared at Potter with fury and disbelief, his hair beginning to fall across his forehead. How could anyone be so damn stupid?_

_“I’ve done it before,” Potter shrugged nonchalantly, as if it was a perfectly reasonable suggestion. “I don’t see why I can’t do it again.” Potter’s lack of concern made Draco feel vaguely sick. He must be joking, saying it just to wind Draco up. That’s what this whole meeting was about, right? Potter came here to give Draco his wand and then sit back and throw his disregard for his own life in Draco’s face. Draco wouldn’t stand for it; he would not let Potter walk all over him._

_“And how well did that turn out for you?” He spat with a kind of acidity even his father couldn’t achieve. Potter startled but Draco held his ground. He knew all about the trip Potter made to the Hall of Prophecies in their fifth year. It was this trip Potter and his friends made that ended with his father in Azkaban. Draco could almost pinpoint his family’s downfall to that exact moment. His father’s failure to acquire that prophecy cost him his favour. If his father had still been in the Dark Lord’s inner circle, would the Dark Lord have requested his father’s wand specifically? Would he have used Draco’s childhood home, his ancestral home, as a playground for his hateful agenda? Would Draco himself have been forced into trying to kill Dumbledore? He’d always thought that had been an attack on his father, who had managed to leave Draco unscathed until that point._

_“I’m older now. I’m wiser, better prepared.” Potter couldn’t meet his eye. Draco was furious but he also knew that he couldn’t afford to make a spectacle in a public setting, presumably that was why Potter had chosen it. Something about the way Potter’s eyes were downcast as he fiddled with his shirt sleeves told Draco that whatever was going through his head ran deep. He didn’t understand why Potter was telling Draco of all people, but it seemed incongruous for him to be dismissive._

_“Look, Potter. Don’t be under any illusion that I care about you. If you want to run off on another one of your hare-brained schemes so be it. But for once put your Gryffindor bullishness to one side and actually think about it. There’s a reason no one has tried to go there before. There’s a reason why it’s buried so deep in the Ministry only someone as idiotic as you has discovered it. Do you really think you stand a chance? Has it ever occurred to you what might happen if you don’t come back?” Draco’s heart felt like lead. He wasn’t just scared of what might happen to Potter if he actually went through with it, he was also terrified of living in a world without him._

_It was supposedly no secret Draco didn’t like Potter. While Draco spent his whole life learning how to meticulously plan each move in order to play his part and honour his family name, Potter charged in and did whatever he wanted, worrying about the consequences later, and somehow still being hailed as a hero. If Draco had stolen a car, attacked a teacher, broken into the Ministry, broken into Gringotts, and let no one forget, actually murder a man, he would be in Azkaban for the rest of his life. In fact, he could very easily be facing that exact sentence by virtue of a tattoo, using an unforgivable curse, and being coerced into fixing a bloody cabinet._

_Yet despite all of that, he couldn’t walk away. He thought of the way he had mooned over Potter for years, shooting poisoned barbs at him and generally being a horrible person just because being without that contact with him was worse. If he let Potter go, with no idea of whether he would return or be lost, that boy who folded paper cranes, pretended to have his arm nearly ripped off, climbed a sodding tree, and wrote a ten-verse song would be lost._

_“You don’t understand,” Potter said quietly. Draco watched with horror as Potter almost broke down right there in front of him, his shoulders sagging with defeat. It made him want to reach out and touch Potter, a concept so foreign it almost made him shiver._

_“What don’t I understand?” He leant forward, folding his arms on the table, his face softening into an expression he hoped was gentle and not menacing. Potter didn’t say anything. Draco could see there was something larger at play here, but he also knew that he would be the last person on earth Potter would expect to talk to about such personal matters. In fact, Potter was probably already mortified he’d said so much already._

_Potter’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Draco took a gamble and leant forward even further, gripping Potter’s forearm across the table. Potter’s eyes widened and Draco tried very hard not to pull back. His arm was much warmer than Draco’s hand and Draco fought to keep the flush from his face. When it was clear Potter didn’t know what to say, Draco continued._

_“I don’t presume to know what it’s like to be you,” he began carefully, “but I do know that you should think very carefully about what you do have before chasing after something you don’t. You might be surprised to find that the grass isn’t always greener.” He was trying to get Potter to think about all the things he had that other people would kill for, but when irritation flared on his face, Draco realised he had overstepped the mark._

_Potter scrambled up from the table as if he’d been doused in cold water. Draco didn’t know what Potter had come here for, beyond the return of Draco’s wand which had taken all of a minute, but whatever it was it wasn’t for Draco to give him life advice. Perhaps Draco had been too presumptuous. Perhaps he was the last person who should be dishing out advice. It wasn’t like he had a clean record himself. He at least had had a family who loved him, even if they were bigots. That was something Draco had to accept, and it was more than Potter had ever had._

_Potter looked as if he was about to cry and it broke Draco’s heart. After years and years of burying everything he felt under sarcasm and bullying, now could have been his chance to set the record straight. To reach out and pull Potter and his stupid stubborn schemes into his arms and ask him not to do anything that would take him away from him._

_But this was not a fairy tale._

_“Please, Harry. Don’t do something you’ll regret. No one will save you this time.” He tried to make it sound threatening, but it wasn’t until it was too late that he realised he had called Potter by his first name. The way it rolled off his tongue like he had been saying it for years made him wish the floor would swallow him whole. It was possible that Potter wouldn’t think much of it, but if he did Draco had effectively just outed himself._

_Potter left the pub quickly, ignoring Draco’s calls, and his heart sunk when he saw the flashes of press cameras. The people around them were either gaping at him in shock or staring at him with disgust, neither of which he particularly enjoyed. It was just great, having the most famous man in wizarding London storm away from him looking crestfallen. It wasn’t as if Draco could afford to lose what little standing he had left. Draco had two choices; he could let Potter walk away now and they would both have to face the consequences, or he could go after him and make damn sure Potter didn’t do something they would both regret._

_As per usual, it wasn’t really a choice. Draco threw some money down on the table and charged after Potter, his heart beating so fast it made him feel sick and his feet almost tripping over each other. He could see Potter’s dark, messy head in the crowds and he ran after it, calling Potter’s name and not caring about the looks he was getting. Potter moved fast, but then so did Draco; they had always been so evenly matched._

_Then Potter turned the corner and Draco’s stomach dropped when he saw him twist and apparate away before Draco could reach him. He hadn’t even known Draco was there. He stopped in the middle of the street and ignored the squawks of outrage when people bumped into him, not expecting anyone to stop so abruptly. For a moment he considered trying to figure out where Potter lived, but he realised that wouldn’t look good for him. Maybe Potter wouldn’t actually go through with it. There was no way Granger would approve of such a plan, and wouldn’t Potter want to consult her about it? Granger was always the brains of their little group. Granger would sort it out._

_So, Draco had headed home, and that had been another in his long list of mistakes._

Draco shot bolt upright and regretted it instantly. His limbs had seized while he slept, and his neck had a crick in it from being slumped against his chest. The urge to sneeze had developed into a tight chest and sore throat, and he wanted more than anything to be back at home in the comfort and warmth his own bed. Except this was the bed he made, and it was the one he would have to lie in.

It was lighter now than it had been when he arrived. He could see now that the cell was woefully bare. It was nothing but exposed wall and dirt floor. There was one tiny window, but it was so high up he couldn’t see anything out of it but the sky.

He was just thinking about how he was going to pull himself up off the floor when he got a letter. It skidded through the bars of the cell and threw dust up which caught in his lungs and made him cough like a smoker. The dirt had smeared over the envelope, but he could already tell that it wasn’t a handwriting he was familiar with.

There was no one around, not even any dementors, so he didn’t care that he crawled over the ground on his hands and knees to retrieve it. Reaching out with shaking fingers, he noticed he was wearing the same faded grey and white striped clothing his father had worn when he was here and the idea of someone changing him while he was unconscious made him shudder. Draco almost scoffed until it hit him how bad it was that nearly a year after the war none of this had changed. If Potter had been here, things would have been different.

The envelope was much heavier than he expected, although the letter was written on the same thick cream paper that Draco himself used. Used to use. His fingers already left dirty prints over the pages and he realised that this was the kind of dirt he might never be rid of again. It was from a _Khaled Purcell_ who introduced himself as a lawyer from the firm Granger worked for. He explained the situation to Draco in six short but succinct lines of text which said that even if it could be proven that Draco had been trying to help, it would do nothing to undo the house arrest violation. None of this was new to him, although there was a second letter folded within the first, one that Granger had sneaked in and which was of greater interest to Draco:

_Dear Draco,_

_I’m so unbelievably sorry. I’m sorry for the way I acted when I came to see you that day in the holding cells. I’m sorry for dragging you into this when you were risking so much. I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to help you now._

_After we were separated, I was taken directly to the Minister’s office. The Hit Wizards seemed scared to deal with me on their own, although I’m not entirely sure why. I expected things to be so much worse if the Minister himself was involved, but after the Hit Wizards left, he dropped all pretence of punishment and instead asked me to explain what we were trying to do. He wasn’t pleased, but he wasn’t angry either. He said it was more than anyone else has done._

_I’m sorry but I can’t get you out of there right now. Kingsley pointed out, and I’m afraid I agree, that with the political landscape as it is, giving you an easy ride will compromise the Ministry further. They’re just getting back on their feet after Thicknesse and the imperius scandal._

_He doesn’t think you hurt Harry, and nor do I. For now though, you’re going to have to stay where you are. I can’t imagine how hard that is. It won’t be for long I promise, I just can’t give you a timescale right now._

_With the express permission of Kingsley, I’ve enclosed something in this letter. I don’t think I need to tell you what it is or how to use it. All I can say is keep it hidden. It’ll tell you everything you need to know. Be careful, I don’t know whether the dementors will notice it or not._

_All my love,_

_~~Hermione~~ _ _Granger._

There was no date on the letter, and although it indicated that enough time had passed for Granger to smooth things over on her end, it didn’t give him any indication as to how long he had been out or what the current date was.

Despite everything, the letter made him smile. There was someone on the other side who knew he was here and who cared enough to write. He was about to pick up the item she’d included, presumably the thing that had made the envelope so heavy, when a cold descended over the room. Draco was struck with the distinct and horrifying feeling that he would never be happy again in his life. The cold dread seeped through his skin and down into his bones and he wanted desperately to be anywhere but there. Quickly, he shoved the letter out of his way under the ‘pillow’ – nothing more than a bunch up old woollen blanket worn thin in parts – that rested on the bare ground.

Every single muscle in his body tensed when he saw the first ripple of dark cloak. The stench of decay made him gag and he turned away from the cell door to no avail. Even without looking at the dementors it was impossible not to know they were there. Draco could see his breath clouding around him as the temperature plummeted, the warmth being sucked out of the atmosphere the same way it was sucked out of him.

He had seen what the dementors could do. He’d seen the way Potter had writhed and turned a strange colour; he remembered Potter’s cold sweat and how weak he had been afterwards. Draco had laughed back then, amused by Potter’s lack on invincibility. He wasn’t laughing now.

Draco felt the approach, could almost feel the drag of the dementor’s cloak across his skin; it was both chilling and sickening. For a split-second Draco realised that he might be about to be kissed, and if he was, this would be the end of him. Yet the dementor did not kiss him, and Draco was not reliving his most painful memories. He opened his eyes, wondering why it was taking so long, and came face to face with one of the most disgusting things he had ever seen. The dementor hadn’t lowered its hood, as it would if it were going to kiss him, but what he could see of its mouth resembled something close so a decayed maggot. But that wasn’t the worst part. As it approached, it reached out a skeletal hand to him. He would have liked to say he didn’t back away because he was brave, but it was only because he knew there was no escape.

Bracing himself to see one of dozens of horrible memories from his past, Draco was not prepared for the flash of red hair, a blast of brilliant green light, and the distinct voice of a woman shouting, “HARRY!”


	14. Chapter 14

Harry shot bolt upright. He was sure he’d just heard someone shouting for him. It was pitch black and he couldn’t remember where he was. He tried to sit up, but a hand shot out from the darkness and pushed him back down. He fought, panic rising in his chest until a lamp flickered on and shed some light on the large room.

“Harry! It’s ok, calm down. You fell asleep!” Someone had removed his glasses and all he could see were blurry blocks of colour breaking through the pitch black, but he could still make out Lyra’s voice. He squinted, although it made little difference, and discovered he was no longer in the room with the tapestry. Relief flooded through him like an icy cold river and his head thumped back down onto the pillow beneath him. As his eyes adjusted to the dark it became clear he had been moved to Regulus’ room. He scrambled for his glasses and found them being pressed into his hand.

“Thanks,” he muttered groggily. Trying to sit up properly he became aware of a weight on his lap. Settling his glasses on his nose properly, he realised there was a pair of large, molten silver eyes staring at him unblinkingly. They almost glowed in the semi darkness and despite being a source of calm to him just days ago, in the near dark it was clear they were the exact same eyes he had stared into through the misty archway in his dreams and that made him uneasy.

Aspen was sitting on top of him, unnaturally still, as if waiting for something. Harry was inexplicably inclined to ask him what he wanted, as if he would be able to respond. The usual scratch between Aspen’s ears seemed to soften him, however the moment Harry made contact with his vulpine companion a dizzying vision flashed before his eyes. Trees, pine needles, fog, the smell of damp earth and rain, slate grey stones and blond hair. The dreams. He retracted his hand in a sudden movement, alarming Aspen who let out a blood-curdling cry.

A startled movement next to his bed drew his attention to the rest of the room. Regulus’ room was the kind of tidy only accomplished in a room that was no longer lived in. Books were aligned perfectly on the shelf opposite him. All the drawers were properly closed and there wasn’t a single thing out of place on the dusty surfaces or scattered on the floor except for a thick hardback book which was faced downwards on the bare floorboards. It seemed Lyra had stayed with him after he was moved; she was sitting in an armchair positioned next to his bed, her eyes wide with fear, until she realised it had been Aspen making the racket. Her shoulders slumped and she reached down to pick up the book she must have dropped in her shock.

“What happened?” He asked her. His mouth was as dry as a desert and must have sounded like it too since after she had smoothed the crumpled pages of the book and returned it to the table between them, Lyra handed him a glass of water. It was so cold that when he swallowed, it felt like a trickle of ice inside him.

“You should be the one telling me that.” She snapped. He couldn’t quite tell if she was referring to the noise that had startled her, or the whole affair with him taking ill. Either way, he couldn’t hide the twist of a smirk forming on his face. He didn’t know how he felt about the fact that he enjoyed her being annoyed at him. Only Malfoy could actually be angry instead of worried. Or maybe for her they were the same thing.

“What time is it?” He asked instead. Lyra frowned and pulled the sleeve of her jumper back to look at her watch. It was silver but looked much fancier than the gold one Mr and Mrs Weasley had bought for Ron on his seventeenth birthday.

“Just after four,” she told him, suddenly looking tired.

“I was out a long time then,” his heart thudded dully in his chest as his brain started to wake up properly. Had he ruined Sirius’ and Remus’ reunion? Where was Ron? Why had seeing the tapestry made him feel so ill in the first place? The tapestry! As if seeing his thoughts beginning to spiral, Lyra cut off his stream of consciousness.

“We should talk about this.” Lyra said. He looked at her properly for the first time in the glow of the solitary lamp and he could see her face creased with concern. His stomach swooped as she pinned him with that same piercing look that she’d had at the open mic night.

“Why?” Although something had shifted between them, he still had a hard time understanding the concept of her trying to help him. He wondered whether she had talked about him with Luna, whether she talked about him at all.

“What do you mean, why?” She snapped. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” She pulled her chair closer to the edge of the bed. She was incredibly pale, even more so than normal, and her full lips had a faint bluish tinge. He didn’t think the room was particularly cold but then he was usually a warm sort of person. There were dark circles under her bloodshot eyes and whisps of her curly hair were floating around in the air on one of Grimmauld’s many draughts. If he wasn’t much mistaken, she hadn’t slept much.

“Are we? The last time I brought that up you threw a fit,” he pointed out. She opened her mouth and closed it again, stumped. She wouldn’t meet his eye and he got the impression there was something else going on in her sharp mind.

“Well, that was then.” She sniffed, lifting her pointed nose in the air. It didn’t work on Harry anymore.

“Of course, how could I be so stupid,” He said sarcastically, shifting Aspen’s weight. He really needed to get out of bed and figure out what his next step was, but there wasn’t much he could do at four in the morning.

“Well, you are in fact very stupid, congratulations on finally noticing. Quite an achievement for you.” He wanted to come up with a cutting remark, but his brain was lagging, and the moment passed. They lapsed into silence. This was the only opportunity he would have to explain to Lyra what had been going on – the dreams, the dizziness, Aspen – everything. It was the only time he might be able to say anything without everyone thinking he was mad. Poisoned, maybe. But not mad.

Except there was no easy way to say it. How could he explain to someone he had hated for longer that he’d liked that he had weird dreams about a man trapped in an archway in a forest after following an imagined version of a fox that randomly showed up at his flat in the middle of the night. And how, after explaining all of that, would he then go on to say that the mystery forest man looked just like said person and he wasn’t entirely sure that said person was actually real.

He couldn’t.

And yet he must.

“Listen, Lyra…” He was searching for the right words when Aspen finally stopped staring at him immobile. The fox screeched and pounced, flying two feet up in the air before slamming his front paws directly into Harry’s groin. Harry saw white.

The pain was quite literally blinding. It seems to get worse with each second as his pain receptors continued to fire and the sensation flared. He unceremoniously batted the crazy animal away and curled into the foetal position on the bed, biting his lip so hard to keep from crying out that he drew blood.

“What the actual fuck?!” Harry rocked as he waited for the fiery pain to die down and Lyra shouted at the fox. When he eventually started to return to his senses, a very strange scene greeted him. Lyra was wrestling with the fox which was screaming in her arms and scratching at her arms. It was spitting and snarling like a rabid animal, as if a switched had flipped and turned its personality on its head.

Doing his best to ignore the blinding pain in his crotch, Harry flung back the bedcovers and launched himself at the two of them, ripping the fox away from Lyra by the back of its neck. Aspen didn’t take kindly to this approach, screaming loudly and snapping his jaws, but he didn’t scratch at Harry. In his rage, Harry no longer cared about treating the refugee fox with care, instead holding the animal up to his eye level, still gripping it by its neck.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” Harry yelled at the fox. He didn’t even care that Lyra might think he was crazy; she’d already seen more than enough, and he was more convinced by the second that Aspen knew exactly what was going on. Of course, the fox couldn’t answer him, but it did snap its jaws again for emphasis.

“Potter you need to calm down, I’m quite alright.” The breathiness in her tone made him look away from the fox to find her clutching her right arm in her left, faint lines of blood starting to seep through her sleeve.

“No, you’re not. There’s dittany in the bathroom, go and clean yourself up. I’ll deal with Aspen.” She hesitated, her gaze flicking to the fox still dangling in the air.

“I-”

“Go!” He said a little too harshly. She swallowed nervously but did as he told her. When the door clicked shut, he dropped the fox on the bed. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” He asked it. “I was about to have a very important conversation and I think you knew that full well. What was the point in you showing up here if you can’t even talk? Because you came here for a reason, didn’t you? You know something.”

The fox sat in the middle of the bed, fur gleaming in the limited light. Aspen’s ears were pricked attentively, and his head was cocked to one side as if in sympathy. There was a sudden calmness, as if it was Lyra’s presence alone that had vexed him.

“All of this started when you showed up!” Harry started pacing the floor beside the bed, suddenly very aware he was wearing pyjamas that he hadn’t been wearing before. He hoped someone had only transfigured his clothes, not actually changed him. “And what good have you done since then?” He accused his fox. Aspen growled in indignation, baring his teeth as if ready to attack but with no real malice behind it.

Harry scrubbed his hands down his face with frustration. “And it’s always you in my dreams! You always lead me to Draco, but you can’t even tell me why! Who is he? Why is he so important?” It was a fruitless, a one-sided conversation, but since he had woken up something had changed for Harry. It was no longer a case of _if_ his dreams could be real, but _how_.

Removing his hands from his face he watched as Aspen leaped up from the bed and darted across to the small window in Regulus’ room. He jumped up onto the wide, old-fashioned window ledge and scratched at the shutters that were bolted closed.

“What-” his question was swallowed by a sound not too dissimilar to a howl which erupted from Aspen. Harry dashed over and unbolted the shutters so that Aspen could see the early morning sky beyond. It was dull as ditch water and the street below was a sludgy mess of sleet and mud where it was lit by streetlamps. Aspen pushed up onto his hind legs and pressed his front paws against the glass, turning back to look at Harry like the answer was obvious.

“Aspen,” Harry said quietly, “do you know the forest in the dreams?” Harry’s heart felt as though it could burst at any moment, with excitement or fear he couldn’t quite tell. The fox’s silver eyes blazed. He keened with affirmation.

Then there was a sound of shattering class from down the hall.

Harry turned and grabbed his wand from the bedside table, hurrying towards the bathroom and abandoning Aspen by the window. He burst through the door and found Malfoy standing in the middle of the room, broken glass all over the floor around her, droplets of dark green liquid splattered up the wall. She turned to look at him in the doorway.

“I was trying to use my left hand.”

“It’s ok, just don’t move.” He held his hand up, palm facing her. The bottle reformed with a gentle wave of his wand, the droplets of dittany merging and pouring back into the tinted glass. When he was satisfied that he wouldn’t pierce the soles of his bare feet with shards of glass, he went to her, taking her hand for stability and dabbing the dittany onto her skin himself. He was halfway up her arm before he noticed that she was standing unnaturally still.

“Is something wrong?” He asked her, looking up at the fine blond curls dangling gracefully from her downturned faced.

“It appears you’re perving on me, Potter. I don’t recall inviting you in.” Harry frowned before realising that she’d taken off her jumper to heal her arm. She must have been wearing another long-sleeved shirt underneath it as she was standing inches away from him in only her bra. Instantly he stepped away, letting go of her hand. His face was blazing hot and his stomach curled with embarrassment.

“Oh, oh shit. I just- I just walked right in here. I didn’t think- I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your way.” He placed the bottle down on a shelf just behind her head, studiously avoiding looking at the vast expanse of her skin currently exposed to him. His own skin prickled with the need to touch her again, but he clamped his hands to his sides.

“No, wait!” Her touch on his arm was feather light, but it still burned through his skin. “It’s fine, I could use your help.” His heart skipped a beat. Never in a million years would he have expected Malfoy to ask him for help.

“O-ok.” They were silent as he tended to the scratches on his arm. He tried to think about everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, but he found himself too distracted by his proximity to Malfoy. He kept his eyes firmly on the skin-deep wounds for fear of losing himself in the moment.

When Harry was done, the tension could be cut with a knife. Even Lyra didn’t quite know where to look as she flung her jumper over her head and darted out of the room.

He stayed in the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the grimy mirror as he took deep breaths and waited for his heart rhythm to settle. His cheeks were flushed red and his eyes looked unfocused. Was he really ready to admit that he believed in the alternate Malfoy in his dreams when there was a very real Malfoy who made him feel like this? Doubt crept over him like a shadow and he forced himself to push the idea to one side. Whichever was the truth, he still had to know what all of this was about.

He went back to Regulus’ room, but Lyra wasn’t there. She must have gone downstairs, so he decided to find some clothes and join her. Aspen started screaming at him the moment he entered the room, but he didn’t want to give him any attention. He’d decided to be needy at the most inopportune moment and Harry needed focus so he could figure out what he wanted to do next. Tell Lyra everything is what he should do, what he had tried to do, but he wondered if the moment had passed. Even if it hadn’t, there would be people downstairs besides Lyra and he wasn’t sure he wanted to announce to half the people he knew that he was slowly losing his marbles.

Making his way downstairs he paused outside the tapestry room. A cold shiver ran down his spine just at the atmosphere in that part of the landing, yet he was still tempted to open the door. His hand hovered over the door handle. On one hand, seeing the anomaly in the fabric might set him off again and he couldn’t handle more of the dizziness. On the other hand, with a clearer head it might confirm some of his suspicions.

A few more seconds passed, and the decision only became more agonising. Before his mind had really settled on an option, he was turning the handle and stepping into the room. Being in the room a second time alone made the feeling more obvious. Like most old magical houses, there was latent magic all over the walls in Grimmauld Place. It thrummed in the background to the extent that it became part of the house, unnoticeable to most wizards. What made this room so different was that there was no magic at all. It wasn’t just the stillness of a mostly abandoned room, it was an absence of magic. The room was, not to put too fine a point on it, dead.

Taking a deep breath, Harry walked into the middle of the room. Dust motes flew around his head, floating in the streaks of light coming in at an angle through the windows. He shivered again and scrunched his eyes closed before forcing them open again and looking at the tapestry wall. He knew before his eyes found the right area that it was as he suspected. Nestled at the bottom of the family tree was a blond-haired boyish version of the man behind the smoky screen. Harry’s heart swooped as he looked at name Draco Malfoy and he couldn’t quite tell if it was in a good way or not.

He wasn’t feeling any ill effects of standing in the room so he decided to take his leave while he still could. The floor creaked as he came down the stairs, alerting anyone downstairs of his approach. For the first time he wondered whether Ron was still here, but surely he would have gone home by now.

The hallway reverberated with chatter from the kitchen and it seemed Harry was wrong. As he approached he felt almost as though he was a naughty schoolkid again, creeping around after hours. Except he wasn’t, he was a grown man, and he needed to get control of the spiralling situation.

When he opened the door, it was instantaneous. The chatter stopped and everyone turned to look at him. The first thing he noticed was that Sirius and Remus were sat at the same end of the table, their chairs pulled close together, their heads bent towards each other. Harry couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face knowing that he had managed to bring them together again. What surprised him though was Lyra and Ron at the other end of the table, already engrossed in a game of wizards’ chess. It was too early in the game to tell who was winning, but the concept of the two of them finding common ground had something warm blossoming in his chest.

Then he remembered why they were all staring at him.

“Um… hi,” he said awkwardly, not really knowing what to do with himself. It was the middle of the night and yet they were all sitting up… waiting? Worrying? He wasn’t sure, but it also meant a lot to him that these people cared enough about him to do that.

“Harry, how are you feeling?” Sirius gave him a small smile and Harry could see the worry in his eyes behind the dark shades which matched Lyra’s.

“Ok… I think. Better than earlier.” He rubbed the back of his neck for something to do with his hands.

“Take a seat, Harry. I’ll get you some tea. You need it.” Remus pulled a chair out for him as he stood and walked over to the kettle, looking as comfortable as if it was his own home. All eyes were still on him as he sat down. He looked at Ron.

Ron glanced down at the chessboard for a split second before saying anything. “Good to see you not looking like a ghost, mate. Sorry I dropped in like that, I didn’t know you weren’t well. The bloody fox was driving me mad though,”

“No, no. It’s fine. You didn’t have to stay though, I’m fine.”

“I was worried… we all were. You looked awful, even worse than that time at the Ministry.” Ron grimaced at whatever memory had surfaced, but Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he was talking about. He opened his mouth to ask but at that moment Remus placed a steaming cup of tea down in front of him.

“Thanks.” He took a gulp even though it was freshly made and burned his tongue. It gave him something to do though because he felt a little awkward sitting in Grimmauld’s kitchen in the middle of the night waiting for someone to address the elephant in the room. He watched as Lyra moved a chess piece carefully – the black pawn turned to the white one diagonally opposite it and sliced through the middle of it, crumbling the white pawn to pieces.

“Potter is going to explain a few things to us, aren’t you Potter?” She dropped him in it without even looking up from the board even though it was Ron’s turn and he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the game anymore.

“Explain what?” His best friend asked him. It struck Harry that this was possibly the longest he’d kept something from Ron, and it wasn’t a nice realisation.

“I’m uh- I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now.” He glanced at the clock on the wall, “it’s half past four in the morning.”

“And I’m sure none of us will be able to sleep until we know what’s going on. You took quite a turn, Harry. I’m not sure you realise…” He looked at Sirius and imagined the same look on his father’s face. Sirius was the closest thing he had to a father, apart perhaps, from Arthur Weasley, and Harry probably owed him the truth.

He took a deep breath and started to explain. He started with the evening he and Ron had returned from the pub after watching Lyra sing and finding Aspen in their flat. Lyra flushed as she remembered how they had looked at each other that night and Ron nodded along vigorously at the bits he remembered.

Then he explained when the dreams had started, how he was always led by Aspen in the same forest, how a little more was revealed each time he had the dream. How he started to become confused when his memory was muddled, how things stopped making quite as much sense as they had. As he spoke, he kept his eyes on his teacup, taking small sips between sentences and pointedly not looking at anyone. When he got to the previous day when he had seen the tapestry he paused and looked around him. Lyra was frowning – not in disbelief but in concentration, as if she was trying to figure out two steps ahead. Ron seemed confused, Sirius concerned, Remus impassive as if withholding any judgement until he’d heard everything.

Sensing his hesitation to finish his story, Sirius chimed in, “Harry, whatever it is, you can tell us. We will support you whatever it is.” The earnest look in his godfather’s eye brought a lump to Harry’s throat. It was the kind of thing he imagined his parents might have said to him whenever he’d been worried or stressed.

“You’re right. It’s just, it’s difficult to put it into words.” Harry drained the last of his tea while he formulated the best way into what he was about to say. He didn’t want Lyra to fly off the handle when he implied there was another version of her out there, a twin maybe, or another cousin no one knew about. Both were more plausible than his initial thought, but it still wasn’t something he expected her to take lightly.

“I’m sure it’ll come to you,” Remus said encouragingly. And so, Harry talked. He explained in the lightest way possible that there must be something wrong with the tapestry because obviously Lyra was the real Black heir and she was right in front of them. However, as he spoke, he realised how ridiculous the whole thing sounded when said aloud. It was impossible for these two Malfoys to exist at the same time.

There was a long silence when he finished, and he dared not look at any of them. Harry felt faintly sick as he waited for each of them to decide it was a step too far even by his standards. He didn’t know where he would go if they turned on him. There was always Luna’s, but Lyra had been staying there for months so he couldn’t be sure Luna would be a viable option. There was always Hermione too, but he didn’t even know where she lived these days.

“I don’t get it,” Ron said bluntly. Harry sighed. He had known it would be a long shot, and now he had exposed his growing madness to everyone who was important to him. But then, an idea formed in his mind.

“Ron,” he started, looking up at his bemused best friend, “why did you and Hermione break up?” Ron frowned.

“What? You know why. I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Harry’s stomach clenched with unease.

“Say I don’t. Explain it to Remus, he doesn’t know anything,” Harry tried. He had a hunch this would be yet more evidence of something being out of place.

“Well, you know… it was pretty standard. We just, broke up… we stopped getting along and stuff.” The shrug Ron gave wasn’t as nonchalant as he had aimed for and Harry could see the doubt on his face.

Harry decided to take a different route. “Ok, so when was the last time you saw her.” All the colour drained from Ron’s face.

“I- uh, well, it must have been-” the tips of Ron’s ears were vermillion, a total contrast to the greyish tinge on his cheeks. Harry turned to Sirius and Remus who both looked worried.

“You see what I mean?” He asked them with a hint of desperation in his voice. The two exchange looks with each other that Harry couldn’t quite decipher.

“And you think this has something to do with that fox?” Sirius asked him. Harry nodded.

“You know there’s only one thing to do here, don’t you?” Lyra’s clipped accent no longer sounded all-knowing and was more hesitant than usual. They all looked at her. She glanced around the room like they were all being idiots. “We follow the fox?”

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Remus interjected, “we don’t know where that animal came from. It could be a shapeshifter for all we know. It might lead us into danger.”

“Don’t come then,” Lyra snapped. “If it was a shapeshifter,” she said the word with notable distain, “it would have attacked one of us by now. If Harry’s right and none of this is real, what exactly do we have to lose?” She sat with perfect posture, but Harry knew her well enough by now to know that she was terrified. Her eyes couldn’t settle anywhere, and she hadn’t done anything to fix her hair which she was usually so particular about.

“I’ll go.” He said.

Lyra’s objection was instantaneous. “Absolutely not. You are not going alone under any circumstances.”

“I hate to say it,” Ron said sheepishly, “but I agree with Malfoy. You can’t go alone. This place could be anywhere mate.” Lyra made fake gagging noises at the prospect of her and Ron agreeing on anything.

“Whether Harry goes alone or not, we all need to sleep before we can make any decisions. What you’ve said has given us all food for thought, Harry, I’m sure we could all use some time to mull it over.” Something about Remus’ tone didn’t sit well with Harry, but he knew he was right. Harry was exhausted and he’d been out cold for hours, never mind the others who hadn’t slept at all.

“Quite right. Let me find you a room Remus, you can’t be going home now. You too Lyra, you’re welcome to stay in your usual room.” Sirius stood and the atmosphere broke. Harry suddenly felt bone tired as if getting everything off his chest had taken the last of his energy with it.

Ron clapped him on the back before taking the floo back to the flat. No words were exchanged between them, but they didn’t have to be. Ron had already followed him to the end and back again.

As he left the kitchen, he felt a cool hand on his arm. Lyra was looking at him with a soft expression.

“Potter- Harry. I know we haven’t exactly seen eye-to-eye in the past, but you should know that we will support you in this. I mean, _I_ will support you in this. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you in the last decade, it’s that you’re honest, and I don’t think you’d make something like this up.”

Harry was dumbfounded. He had no idea how to respond. Lyra slipped passed him and was halfway down the corridor before Harry figured out what to say. He couldn’t believe how calmly she was taking it. He had effectively just told her he wasn’t convinced she was actually a real person and she seemed fine with it – was it even more evidence that it was true? Or did she know something else too?

“Malfoy,” Harry’s voice cracked in the middle of her name. She turned, her blonde curls catching the moonlight as she did so. “Thank you.”

She smiled before she disappeared up the stairs.


	15. Chapter 15

How much isolation can the human consciousness withstand before it starts to deteriorate? How long on average does the neurotypical prisoner survive before being slowly eaten alive from the inside, driven mad by the inner thought? These questions are not ones that Draco could answer, although he would’ve liked to have studied the concept while he had the chance.

There was no way to tell how long Draco had been in Azkaban. In the early days he had tried to count the cycle of the moon by scratching tallies on the wall, but the beginnings of a cold he’d had when he’d entered the prison had raged into a fever so high he’d become delirious, and he’d lost count.

The scream haunted Draco all hours of the day and night. Ever since the first dementor attack he had been trying to understand why he heard such a blood curdling sound. In the height of his delirium, he had seen nothing but green eyes behind his own eyelids, unknown voices and heinous laughter echoing around him like ghosts. At one point he’d begged for it to be over, although he’s still not sure whether he actually made a sound. He doesn’t even remember if the dementors came for him.

Early on he’d taken to singing quietly the few songs he remembered the words to, only so that he didn’t lose the ability to speak and in the absence of his piano. It was evening, although it was hard to tell when the sky remained the same shade of stormy grey at all times. He could tell on this occasion by the faint glow of a waxing gibbous behind the clouds. He tried to think about which potions ingredients would be best to harvest during a waxing gibbous, but he was too tired. He was always too tired these days. Looking out at the glowing white circle, he was reminded of a song his mother used to sing when he was small.

_Moon river, wider than a mile_

_I'm crossing you in style someday_

_Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker_

_Wherever you're going', I'm going' your way_

He didn’t remember where the song came from, only that his mother used to sing it to him in that delicate lilting voice she had.

_Two drifters, off to see the world_

_There's such a lot of world to see_

_We're after the same rainbow's end_

_Waiting' 'round the bend_

_My huckleberry friend_

_Moon river and me_

He almost laughed when he remembered being too embarrassed to ask his mother what a huckleberry friend was, too proud to admit to not know everything, even as a child. The faint amusement died before it could even reach his face as the freezing temperature dropped further; the dementors were making their rounds again.

The dementors were excited about the fresh meat, and they had gotten used to feasting on Death Eaters as the war trials had sent many new residents their way. They came for him almost every hour of the day and night. His head fogged with a bitterness and hopelessness that was hard for him to fight against, but he tried valiantly. The first couple of times the dementors came for him left him reeling for hours, but once the low thrum of misery kicked in, their attacks seemed further away, as if he were only a visitor in his own body. They were unlikely to pay him much mind, the evening rounds were mostly about checking all the prisoners were in their cells. Sleeping, Azkaban’s residents were less resistant to the dementors’ feeding, and they didn’t seem to like easy game.

He hadn’t known until coming here himself just how awful it was when they attacked. Although he had seen the state his father had been in after his stay in Azkaban, he’d never been there during the nights when the place was a cacophony of wails and insane screams. Never had he regretted scaring Potter more. Each time the dementors approached he couldn’t help but remember all those times when they were younger that they sought Potter out, fed on his pain.

How much had Potter suffered that by the time they were at school he was such a target? The thought brought tears to Draco’s eyes.

A crack of lightening across the sky lit up his cell like a giant lumos. The pages of an old newspaper he’d lain out on the floor looked new again, just for a moment. When the paper had randomly been thrown through the bars of his cell, he hadn’t even bothered to read it. News of the outside world mattered little to him and there was never any good news. Now, for the first time since he’d spread it on the floor as insulation against the dirt and cold, he noticed the date on it.

Saturday 31st July 1999

Potter’s birthday. How hadn’t he realised? He grabbed for the cover sheet even though the lightening was gone. It made it hard to read the small newspaper print, however even in the dimmest of lights he would have been able to make out the headline:

**_VIGIL HELD FOR FALLEN HERO_ **

Beneath the stark headline was a picture taken in Diagon Alley. Floating lanterns were lit along the cobbled street and hordes of people crowded in shop doorways and along the pavements, each holding a candle. There were small children on their parents’ shoulders delighted by the twinkling lights, unaware of their significance, and teenagers with tear-streaked faces. Potter’s face loomed above them, looking more regal and far more distinguished than he really was with his head tilted just so and perfectly groomed stubble. There were similar photos taken in the Great Hall at Hogwarts and at the stadium where the Harpies played, the largest quidditch stadium in England, full to bursting. It appeared the whole wizarding world was in mourning for a man Draco wasn’t sure was even dead. Certainly nothing official had made any hint of it.

His chest tightened at he gazed down at the pain on their faces. Things had gone on far too long and he should have done something about it sooner. All this running around with spells and translations that thus far had proved fruitless when all he’d needed to do was chase after Potter; make sure he didn’t leave.

If Draco had told Potter the truth about how he really felt, would it have been enough to make him stay? Or would it only have tipped him over the edge sooner? Draco supposed most people wouldn’t want a failed Death Eater mooning over them. Why would Potter have been any different?

Draco was twelve the first time he realised he had a crush on Harry Potter. The whole of his first year he had spent in a rage at the audacity of Potter to reject his friendship. He had raged to his friends, his father, his mother, the elves, anyone who would listen, until eventually no one would take any more. It was at that point, when Draco was forced to keep his hurt feelings to himself, that he started to realise what had really happened. Although too young to understand half of the words he parroted from his father, he was astute enough to recognise that he had been rude. If he had only taken the time to calmly explain the situation to Potter, he could have made him understand.

 _“You know, if you just apologised to Potter, he’d probably forgive you.”_ Draco remembered sitting in the common room, the fire blazing a lurid green colour after the fourth years had been practising the colour changing charm. He couldn’t remember why the conversation happened, only that his friends had been a lot wiser than he.

He could see Blaise, even now. As if he was in the dingy cell next to him, lounging languidly on one of the common room’s black settees, the green flames casting sinister shadows over his sharp bone structure even as he smiled at Draco teasingly.

 _“Don’t be stupid, Blaise. I won’t apologise.”_ The stubbornness that prevented him from expressing his childish curiosity had persisted.

 _“Why not? If he’s as important as everyone says he is, shouldn’t you follow his lead?”_ Oh Blaise, your naivety never failed to astound even then.

 _“I don’t follow anyone’s lead. I’m the leader. My father said so.”_ Then again, his own naivety wasn’t so far behind. Did he really echo his father that much? He had his own mind; he had always been capable of making his own decisions.

 _“If you were the leader Potter would have followed you not Weasley. And you wouldn’t stare at him all day every day.”_ Ouch Blaise, too close to home.

_“I don’t stare.” Lies._

_“Yes you do. It’s ok, you know. I’m like you too.”_ Even now the accuracy stung.

_“I don’t know what you mean.”_

_“I think you do.”_

By the time second year rolled around, Draco had forgotten the hurt and had moved onto anger. Anger because his obsession with Potter wouldn’t go away. Anger that even when Potter wasn’t in his classes or playing against him on the quidditch pitch, there were still plenty of rumours which whispered his name in Draco’s ear all day, never leaving him alone even for a moment. To this day he has never told Blaise outright how he really felt; he liked to pretend no one ever knew about his soft spot for Potter except for Pansy, but that must surely have been a lie.

He was so unbelievably tired of thinking all the time and getting absolutely nothing done. He should be out there, using every spare moment to find Potter, to bring him home, to explain everything and right his wrongs. But instead, he was stuck in the dark, wasting away when he might be the only one who could fix things.

He smoothed the paper back down on the ground, Potter face down where Draco wouldn’t be able to see him. The ache in his heart grew deeper and wider every day without him. It must have been the early hours of the morning before Draco put his head down to sleep, not that he got much of it. It seemed though, that he wasn’t the only one with insomnia in recent months. Something hot burned beneath his cheek and with a sudden burst of energy Draco scrambled for the object he’d stuffed inside his pillow.

It was a coin which looked like a regular galleon, but he knew from experience it was something more. Briefly, he considered that it might have been one of the original coins that the Dumbledore group used in their fifth year, but the chances of Granger having kept those seemed small to him. He had destroyed the ones he’d made himself in sixth year, mostly because they were highly incriminating.

The coin was the only thing keeping Draco sane. Draco’s cell was high up in the island prison and would have been streaming with sunlight most of the day if the sun could shine on such a tower of despair. The walls were slick with damp and the air smelled like decay. It was easy enough to understand why people went mad in this place even without the dementors, let alone lack of human contact and poor living conditions.

Communication via the coin was difficult. Each message could be a maximum of six short words written around the circumference of the coin face. Anything more than that made the letters too small to read. Granger seemed worried that excessive use would wear the magic out, or make it easier to detect, so she only communicated with him at irregular intervals. He allowed Pansy to stay at the Manor if she wanted, although it seemed she had gone to stay with Granger, and he couldn’t blame her for that. They’d both promised to go there every so often to keep the elves company and give them something to do, which was more than he had asked.

That night the message was a simple one: _you have to keep trying._

Granger was convinced that their spell had worked, even though Draco’s faith had faded what seemed like forever ago. Most of the irregular messages he received urged him to keep trying to find the link between himself and Potter. Draco didn’t have the heart to tell her that his magic was slowly fading; at least, the minimal amount he had ever been able to produce wandlessly. Of course, it could be more to do with the magic dampening within the prison than anything else, but he had a feeling the weakness in his bones he’d never quite recovered from after his fever had something significant to do with it.

The only time he had ever felt even remotely close to Potter had been when he had been attacked by a dementor or when he was in-

That was it!

How had he not realised it before? They had suspected that it could take a while for the spell to take root. Hadn’t they tried to wait for it to settle before they were ambushed by the Hit Wizards? But he’d been hit with that spell and he’d blacked out. The next thing he’d known was waking up in this cell. But he’d seen Potter in those moments when the world was slipping sideways. That feeling of being in two places at once… in the depths of the Ministry but simultaneously somewhere warm with Potter’s green eyes looking right at him.

The tiredness was going to be difficult to overcome if he was going to try it, but Granger was right, he had to keep trying.

As he stood, the icy wind came whistling through his cell, blowing right through his thin clothes and making him shiver, but he didn’t let it stop him. He thought about how it had felt the first time; the low centre of gravity, the ruffle of his fur as he moved, the unusual sensation of having a tail offset by enhanced hearing and sense of smell. He imagined fur the same colour has his hair, maybe a little darker. It wasn’t easy when he still wasn’t entirely sure what animal he had become, but it was working.

The sensation was less sickening the second time. Despite the feeling of his being breaking into pieces and reforming, he no longer felt like he was reforming into the wrong shape. It was still weird, and the process seemed to take longer than it had the first time but gritting his teeth and waiting for the waves of nausea to pass, he eventually found himself back on four legs.

The effect was instantaneous. No sooner had his front paws landed in the dirt and he’d swished his tail once, than the world around him began to blur again. He couldn’t exactly explain how, but the settling of his and Granger’s spell had coincided with his first animagus transformation and something had clearly gone awry.

The world rippled and swayed around him, almost like in apparition except he wasn’t the one moving. The next thing he knew, the ground beneath him gave way and he was falling… falling…

~*~

He was in a narrow hallway in pitch darkness although he could see perfectly well. He couldn’t remember how he got there, but he let his instinct guide him. He sniffed around the room, picking up the smell of oak from the floorboards and something more man-made; sweet and aromatic like vanilla and star anise. The room wasn’t familiar at all, but he recognised the scent faintly, as if he had smelled it before but never understood what it was. There was a door to his left, and he tried to stand up and grapple with the handle, but he hadn’t yet mastered the lack of opposable thumbs. When he couldn’t get the door open the regular way, he started scratching at the edges, hoping it wasn’t pushed closed properly and he could nudge it. The door creaked open slowly and for a split second, Draco thought he had been successful, but then a figure appeared on the other side. He yelped in surprise and scrambled away, his paws slipping against the smooth surface.

The figure stood in the doorway looking down at Draco. His eyes struggled to adjust from the pitch black to the bright light coming from behind the door, so it wasn’t possible for him to see the person’s face. The smell of star anise was stronger around them and Draco trusted the instinctive familiarity. It was a hard-fought battle between his animal instinct and his human equivalent, but he did his best to show that he wasn’t a threat by brushing himself against the person’s legs in a way he hoped seemed affectionate. How degrading.

Suddenly the crack of light burst open, flooding the darkened hallway with yellow light. Another figure appeared next to the first one. By then Draco’s vision had adjusted to the light and he could see a mop of brilliant red hair. His heart sank.

“The bloody hell is that racket?” The voice was painfully familiar to Draco and instantly his mouth snapped shut. Weasley was quite literally the last person he wanted to come across in this situation. The realisation sunk in as he noticed the messy black hair and the glint of glasses. He’d just prostrated himself against the legs of Harry Potter. He would never live it down.

Draco had found him. After all this time Potter had been getting on with his life. A guttural sound escaped Draco when he realised that maybe Potter had stayed away on purpose all along… had Weasley gone with him? However, through the fox the noise came out closer to a high-pitched screech than a cry of pain. It made no sense for Draco to be there like this. Had the spell actually worked? Or was Draco so close to the edges of reality that he could no longer tell fact from fiction?

Deciding that it didn’t matter either way, Draco slowly edged forward towards the light.

“I think we have a visitor,” Potter was saying, but Draco wasn’t paying much attention. He was quickly calculating what he could do to make damn sure he could stay in this place. Only then would he be able to get Potter back.

“You must be mad! We can’t keep a fox in here!” A fox. Surprising. Draco hadn’t been able to ascertain his animagus form, not having had an opportunity to see his reflection or transform in a context where someone could inform him, but funnily enough a fox seemed to fit.

Of course Weasley would be inhospitable even when he was in a vulpine form. Perhaps it was built into his DNA.

“We can’t let it out in the street either!” Draco tried not to bristle at being referred to as ‘it’. It was fortunate he was no longer able to speak, as he would have gone on a tirade against Potter invoking his charitability on him. Potter still had his hand in his… fur, and Draco was trying his utmost not to give into the instinct to- to- snuggle. Disgusting.

Before he could figure out what was happening, Potter’s hands were all over him. He was all of a quiver as he felt the strength in Potter’s arms, until he suffered the indignity of Potter’s arm between his legs. Almost choking on his own tongue, he began to protest at such over familiarity:

“Potter! Potter how dare you! Unhand me the instant!” Except of course those were not the words that came out of the fox’s mouth. Instead, it sounded more like angry hissing… perhaps more effective anyway.

Draco was still reeling from the sensation of Potter’s arm being, well, _there_ , when he was unceremoniously deposited on the kitchen floor. Instinctively, he darted into the corner, his paws slipping across the smooth floor and making it difficult for him not to slam into things as he went. The growl he heard was as much Draco as the fox. The weasel retreated, for once being the more sensible of the two imbeciles. A contradiction in terms if ever there was one.

“…Shouldn’t we call someone to take it away?” The weasel was saying. _No, no. Don’t take me anywhere._ The notion of being taken away from Potter made Draco panic, this heart beating wildly and the prickle of anxiety running down his limbs. He absolutely could not lose Potter again. Under no circumstances could he allow that to happen.

His body felt too foreign as he watched Potter stumbling about the kitchen trying to figure out what to do with a fox. Draco took the time to assess the sensations he had been barraged with when he had initially transformed. The almost-extrasensory perception that came with his sharpened sense of smell and vision, the new centre of gravity and crazy agility. It wasn’t exactly an unpleasant feeling, to be a fox, but he also hadn’t yet learned his vulpine personality, and he could feel the fox’s instinct to run vying with his own to stay.

It was all going well until Potter left Draco in the living room. The only thing worse than being in a foreign body in a foreign place he didn’t quite understand was being abandoned there. It was a weird feeling being stressed while in his fox form. The instincts of the fox were to move and keep moving, to get out as soon as possible and find open space. Draco’s own instincts were to be responsible and wait for Potter to return. And if he didn’t return, be grateful for having a semblance of a bed. The fox took over and Draco went flying. Cushions ripped, plants were knocked over, in the kitchen pots and pans clattered to the floor and he slipped and slid across the polished surfaces. He tried to claw at the windows but of course he couldn’t get out.

But then Potter was there. “Shhh, shhh. I’m staying here, ok? Just here.” He pointed to the sofa and as if by some miracle Draco did shush. Potter continued as Draco stood there in shock, “I’m going to stay here until morning and then we’re going to take you home, okay?” If a fox could blush, Draco would have. He’d never seen this side of Potter before; didn’t even know it existed. There was nothing else to do but go to the bed Potter had made for him and wait it out until he could figure out how to change himself back again. Even if he knew how, which he didn’t, he couldn’t very well change into his human form right in front of Potter. Could he, if he tried? He doubted it.

Potter slumped lazily onto the sofa across the room. He seemed very tired and fell asleep almost immediately, while Draco’s heart was still hammering and he felt like he was on high alert. His hearing picked up all of the traffic noise outside, which suggested Potter and the weasel lived in a muggle neighbourhood. He could hear each rustle of leave and lashing wind. It felt so undignified to be sleeping in a pet bed on the floor of Potter’s home. So undignified that after an hour he still wasn’t asleep. Perhaps he couldn’t sleep here at all, he didn’t yet know.

It didn’t even matter that he couldn’t sleep. This place, wherever it was, was warm and safe, not like his cell. Even if Potter knew it was Draco, he wouldn’t exactly have turned him out on the street either, would he? The weasel would have, but then Draco shouldn’t expect any less based on how he’d treated him and the whole weasel clan over the years.

When Potter had been asleep for a while and he deemed it reasonably safe, Draco crept across the room towards the sofa. The fox made it much easier to be quiet, something he would have to use to his advantage when things were back to normal.

He leapt up onto the arm of the sofa and looked down at a sleeping Potter. He looked so young when he was asleep and had no worry lines crinkling his eyes. His skin looked surprisingly soft for someone who Draco could confidently say didn’t have a skincare routine. His hair was the same disaster it always was, but Draco had missed the mop so much he was nothing but delighted to see it again.

Getting caught up in the moment, Draco edged down onto the small gap between Potter and the edge of the cushion. His body was small enough for the fox to curl up right in front of his face, although he wasn’t sure he was quite that daring. He wanted to sit right there all night; finally able to get this close without fear of taking a hex to the chest or worse. Potter could be quite fierce when conscious, but asleep…

Potter twitched and Draco jumped. Forgetting his new agility, he flew much higher than he expected. Luckily, he had the appropriate reflexes and managed to land quietly. Having more than pushed his look for one night, he stalked over to the bed Potter had made and dragged it over to Potter with his teeth. He would have to move it back before either wizard woke the following morning, but for now this is where he would try to sleep.

He had done it. He had found Potter.

Now the question was how to get them both home…


End file.
